


Shift

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, M/M, this is a fic of a fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Full disclosure: this is a fic of a fic, from another fandom, that I have rewritten to fit Ian and Mickey.Some people are Changelings: When Ian Gallagher shifts for the first time at age 17, he has no idea how the course of his whole life will be altered as a result.(Chapters will be posted weekly with the rest of my work, post 2/20/21)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How to Build a Heart out of Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/387082) by [Teumessian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teumessian/pseuds/Teumessian). 



> All credit to the original author, Teumessian.  
> All errors are obviously my own.

Ian changed for the first time in the middle of his 11th grade history class, taking everyone, including himself, by surprise. There was thought to be some genetic or familial influence, but he was the only one in his immediate family who had made the Change. There was a rumor from Monica that his granddad had been a flamingo, but there hadn’t been any Changelings in the family since, until Ian, who was in the spring semester of his junior year, and honestly that just didn’t happen. Children almost always made the Change between ages nine and fourteen. Ian was seventeen. Nobody had even taken into consideration the possibility of him being a Changeling, albeit a late blooming one. After Lip and Fiona didn’t change, none of the rest of the Gallagher siblings really considered it a possibility.

Yet here he was, in Mrs. Hardin’s History, desks and chairs scattered around him, his classmates looking at him with shock, with awe, with fear and some with hate. Here he crouched, bristling and confused, as he felt fur rise on his hackles and a whine leak from his throat. His ears were flattened back and his tail was tucked; Ian was scared, too. What was happening to him?

It would later be explained to Ian that this first Change was one of the biggest causes of prejudice against Changelings. Normally the human mind is completely and totally dominant over the animal instincts, and even in shifted form Changelings retain composure and awareness. However, the first time is different—with the shock and the sudden radical shift in… well, everything, children tended to react instinctively. Very, very rarely was anyone ever injured when a child Changed, but there was often a lot of growling, fanfare, barking, chirping, flying, fleeing, or hiding.

Ian Gallagher, for his part, cowered in confusion until the class could be cleared away, a standard process when a student changed during school. Then he paced on four paws, sense of smell becoming overpowering, and he waited, telling himself that the school counselor would soon come to collect him. That was how it worked. He’d seen it before, once in elementary and twice in middle school school. It took longer than it did in elementary or middle schools, though, where it was expected, and faculty were well prepared. The teachers at the high school were only really aware of this process in theory, but finally Mrs. Caulking came shuffling into the room with a bright orange blanket and began to talk Ian through the process of shifting back—reading from cue cards, she explained how it could take some time, but if Ian focused he would shift back soon enough. She was right. It took no more than a minute for him to change back, and the poor woman gave him the garish blanket to cover himself with. Ian thought this process must be so much less awkward with ten-year-olds than with a lanky boy about to come of age—it had to be, because this was nearly unbearable.

Then came the worst, most uncomfortable walk down a hallway that Ian ever had to endure in the entirety of his admittedly short life. He’d tried to salvage his trousers, tee-shirt, or even his shoes, for fuck’s sake, but the first Change was certainly violent and explosive. There were only shreds of cloth and rubber soles left. So instead Ian walked down the hall of his respectable high school with nothing but that garish, orange blanket covering his naked body. He avoided eye contact with everyone he’d ever known, and with each step he forced himself to accept the fact that they were lost to him now; that girl in his history class, his ROTC peers, and even a few childhood friends that had grown distant over the years—he always assumed they’d reconnect at some point...

He would write to them, his closest friends at least, but life at an Institute hardly made nurturing old ties easy. Ian knew it would never be the same, as did they. His peers silently said their goodbyes to the Normal that was Ian Gallagher, waving away the Changeling that took his place.

In the counselor’s office more procedure was to be followed. He sat in a scratchy chair, all the more prickly against his bare calves where the blanket didn’t cover, and he waited as Mrs. Caulking called his parents. He stared at her shiny brass name plate without really reading it while she waited, then finally gave up on Frank or Monica appearing, settling for Fiona, explaining by phone what happened. He wasn’t really worried about his siblings. He may be the only Changeling in his family, but they weren’t the sort of prejudiced folk that got away with far too much in this supposedly civilised age. They were Southside. They would accept Ian for what he was: fur, fangs, and all. His older brother might give him more grief, maliciously or not, and it would push the boundaries of what he could handle right now, but when weren’t he and Lip at each other’s throats?

Then Mrs. Caulking made one other call, to a hotline created so schools could report Changes. Ian nervously tried to trace one line of wood grain on the woman’s polished desk, but he kept losing the thing in the exposed knots. After a conversation about Ian’s student record and a number of other things that went in one of Ian’s ears and out the other, Mrs. Caulking set the receiver down with a click that seemed to echo around the room. Finally, Ian worked up the courage to look up and meet his fate.

“So…” his voice was rough. Ian cleared his throat before trying again. “So, where am I…?”

He held her eyes, determined not to look away.

“Malcolm X Institute,” she said.

She said more, about how the school had an amazing science program, about the gorgeous campus, the well funded facilities, and that there was a decent football team there. He forced each comment into his mind, anchoring them there, replacing details of his old life one by one. There was no use in regret, or in rejecting the inevitabilities that awaited him. It was out of his control. All he could do now was look ahead, so Ian Gallagher closed his eyes and pictured a beautiful school in the suburbs.

. . .

There were parts of the Malcolm X Institute that matched Ian’s expectations. It was indeed in the suburbs, the very edge, actually, by a small patch of forest. Most of the Institutes were. Young Changelings needed space to shift and to move. If they didn’t shift semi-frequently they got… uncomfortable, or worse.

The biggest building was at the very center of the campus, and was indeed old and impressive. It was massive and its walls were made of heavy stone bricks, often perforated by elaborate stained glass windows that glinted dimly under the overcast sky, colorful patches on greyscale. The corbels under the hulking parapets were carved into the growling shapes of multitudes of beasts—lions, eagles, wolves, serpents and more. They must have been detailed but they were too high up for Ian to make out more than their basic forms. Spires rose from both the parapets as well as the towers that rose from the major corners of the building. There were other buildings scattered around it with simpler styling, still classic but far less grandiose. There was another very large building that Ian could see far to his right, still stonework but slightly more modern. From the little Ian had to go on, the rows of small windows, the students milling about with footballs in the yard near it, he guessed that those must be dormitories.

However, Ian wasn’t completely unsurprised by the Institute. On the opposite side of the campus, only just visible behind the grand main hall, were buildings that looked much more modern. They were all glass, white and concrete, the kind meant to take advantage of natural lighting.

A car had picked Ian, along with most of his worldly possessions, up late that morning from the bus station. Luckily Ian was never much of a hoarder of useless things, so it wasn’t too hard to pack efficiently. Currently, Ian stood awkwardly on the edge of a large parking lot. He glanced up at the big silver sign above the enormous black double doors that led into the building. It read ‘The Malcolm X Institute’ and then underneath in smaller letters ‘Malcolm X Grand Hall’. There was a plaque underneath that read, _Iuncti mutatimus iuncti crescimus_. He made a mental note to ask what it meant. It was just one more question added to an impossibly long list.

There were other students rushing around and a few people that looked like they must be teachers. The students all wore surprisingly nice uniforms—much better than the random attire that Ian and his schoolmates wore at all of his previous schools. The jackets were well structured, black, and had thin silver trim. The girls wore knee length skirts and knee high socks. Both boys and girls wore shirts that were crisp and white, and their ties were black with stripes of silver and another color—either yellow, purple, red or blue. Ian wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Fancy shit. 

Nobody seemed to notice one boy, lost and new. Ian wondered if it was because newcomers were so common—they’d have to be with numbers like this; Ian had never seen so many Changelings in his life… not that he would know the difference in adults he supposed—or perhaps it was just that nobody thought Ian was new at all, not at his age.

However, a moment later Ian was finally noticed. Well, spotted was more accurate, as it seemed these people had come to meet him. A man with dark hair and a blazer led the group. Following him was a young man, close to Ian’s own age, but with unusual mixed hair, both black and sandy blond. It wasn’t odd for some characteristics of a Changeling’s shift form to be reflected in their human form, and Ian wondered what his shift form looked like to make his hair go like that. A few other students lingered curiously behind the pair in front.

When they got close enough, the adult greeted him.

“Ian Gallagher?” he asked with a friendly smile, extending his hand.

Ian nodded and shook his hand.

“My name is Dr. Youens. We spoke on the phone,” he introduced himself.

Ian lightly returned his smile, still too nervous to put his whole heart into it. A few days ago Ian had indeed spoken to Dr. Youens, a psychiatrist and the Institute’s counselor, over the phone. He had called to explain the process of transferring into Malcolm X and to give him an overview of what to expect from the process.

“How was the trip?” Dr. Youens asked, obviously trying to make Ian feel comfortable and welcome, something Ian didn’t mind in the slightest.

“It was good. The car was great,” Ian answered with a polite smile.

Dr. Youens nodded and smiled.

“We try to make the transition as easy as possible,” he said as he waved the mixed-haired boy forward.

Ian noted that his tie had red stripes.

“This is Joaquin Galindo, High School. He’s a key member in our student guard,” Dr. Youens said.

At Ian’s questioning glance Joaquin spoke up.

“It’s a sort of… a student police force on campus, like they have at some colleges. We stop bullying, track down vandals, you know, escort students across campus at night if they call a hotline,” Joaquin explained, hands casually in his pockets, pushing his unbuttoned jacket back.

Ian nodded, digesting his answer.

“Anyway,” Dr. Youens cut in before Ian had to think of what to say to that, “Joaquin here is going to show you the campus and, later this evening, the forest. Due to your… atypical circumstances I’d like it if you would come and see me within the next week so we can talk about how you’re settling in.”

“Okay,” Ian said, “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave him in your capable hands, Joaquin,” Dr. Youens said just before he turned and went back into the large building they’d just emerged from.

“Right then,” Joaquin said, clapping his hands together, “Where to start?”

Ian awkwardly glanced back at the few scruffy boxes and single duffle stacked on the side of the road behind him.

[“What about my things?” Ian asked, and Joaquin smiled.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/177HYpTy2JMqgk1aYzNt1cgCd2xHARuhweX2kIbbUTsw/edit?usp=sharing)

He nodded his head towards the small group of students that had trailed behind him and Dr. Youens.

“That’s what these guys are here for. They’ll take your stuff up to your room, and it’ll be there for you when we finish,” Joaquin explained, and then he looked around as if trying to make a decision. “Lets just pick a direction and go.”

“Oh,” Ian said. “Ok.”

He found himself smiling. He liked Joaquin, and while it was obvious by his lack of practice as a tour guide that they were making unique arrangements for Ian’s special circumstances, the boy wasn’t making Ian feel awkward in the slightest.

“So, this is the main building, Malcolm X Hall. This is where all the elementary and middle school kids have school, as well as most of the high school,” Joaquin explained, looking back at the hulking building. “The organisation there is trash; expect to be lost for at least the first week in there.”

Ian laughed.

“Noted, leave early for classes. So what’s the motto?” Ian asked.

Joaquin stuck his hands into his pockets again and looked up at the shiny plaque.

“Ah, Iuncti mutatimus, iuncti crescimus… It means, ‘Together we change, together we grow’,” he explained.

“Fitting,” Ian said.

“That it is,” Joaquin laughed. “So what’s your shift?”

Shift was the casual term for a Changeling’s animal form, the shape they shifted to—the beast in their heart.

“Umm… Red wolf,” Ian said after a brief hesitation.

He wasn’t used to saying it yet. He knew he would get there, but right now it was crazy to think that he could change into a sharp toothed predator at will. Plus, he knew it was a part of him, a part of him he could never deny. A pleased grin split over Joaquin’s face.

“That’s great!” he said. “German Shepherd myself. Was worried I’d have to show another little skittish thing around the woods, but you’ll keep up just fine.”

Joaquin walked him all over campus. He showed him the elementary student dorms and the other class buildings. There was even a tiny student hospital on campus, as the Malcolm X Institute was famous for its pre-med program. When they approached the modern-looking buildings that Ian had spotted behind Malcolm X Hall earlier Joaquin explained that they were the science buildings, put in only in the last year or so in an attempt to be more eco-friendly.

As Joaquin talked, a girl with blond hair and an awkward rush to her steps exited the building. When Joaquin spotted her he stopped and called her name.

She glanced up, taking a moment to recognise Joaquin before changing her course to meet them. She wore the same red accented tie that Joaquin did.

“Ian, this is Karen Jackson,” Joaquin said, indicating the young woman. “She’s in the same year as us and a chem student, medical focus, just like you. Karen, this is Ian Gallagher. You’ll probably see each other in classes.”

Back home, they filled out questionnaires at the beginning of every school year that took into account their student records as well as their intended plans. They were used for many things, one of which was potential Institute placement. Ian had decided after some thought that he wanted to be a doctor—and accepted the fact that he would probably have to promise himself to the military to pay for school, but now that he was at an Institute… Well, they were miraculously funded. Ian had no idea why, but he wouldn’t have to worry about managing to pay for medical school now. There were certainly benefits to making the Change, Ian had to admit.

“Hey,” Karen said politely, dropping her eyes shyly.

“Hi,” Ian said.

“Ian’s new,” Joaquin explained, and Karen glanced up at him questioningly.

He was so old to be a new change. He wondered how long he would be subjected to those looks. Not that he could do anything about it. Ian just smiled, trying to pretend it wasn’t as big a deal as everyone knew it was.

They said goodbye to Karen and continued on their tour, making their way in the general direction of the forest that seemed to back up to the campus. They passed a set of apartment style dorms that pressed up against the woods on their way. Joaquin called it “B Wing” and explained these were mostly used by the older students and even by a few junior teachers and professors.

“So what do those colors on all your ties mean?” Ian asked as he saw a younger girl with purple stripes pass them by.

“Oh!” Joaquin said, as though he was already supposed to tell him but forgot. “They indicate what level of school you’re in. There’s yellow for elementary, purple for middle school, red for High School, and blue for the Uni kids.”

Ian nodded, and now that he was paying attention he easily saw the age collections within the colors.

Joaquin began to loop back towards the main buildings, and as they turned around one of the forest-side corners of Malcolm X Hall Ian almost ran smack into another student. The young man had his nose buried in a heavy volume and hadn’t been looking where he was going. As he dodged, Ian’s elbow clipped the corner of the thick book, and it began to tumble from the boy’s hands. Ian had always been gifted with good reflexes, so he caught the book without much effort.

“Sorry,” Ian said automatically as he went to hand the book back to its owner.

The boy was shorter, and pale-skinned, with curly, dark hair and piercing blue, eyes that now regarded Ian carefully. There was... something there, something gleaming in his eyes like questions to answers Ian hadn’t even thought to ask yet. Ian’s breath caught in his throat.

The boy wasn’t wearing any tie at all. He rudely reached out to snatch the book back, and cocked his head lightly to the side, eyes settled on Ian.

“New fucker,” he stated, his voice low and dark, the finality of a complete assessment ringing in his tone as he stared.

Then the boy swept past, leaving Ian with a lasting, longing look at his ass.

Ian stood, a little shell-shocked for a second. _What the hell was all that?_

“Who was that?” Ian amended his question.

Joaquin shook his head, watching the boy go.

“That… is Mickey Milkovich,” he explained, but Ian could tell there was more to say on the subject.

Joaquin indicated with a nod that they should keep walking, and continued.

“He’s an odd one. He’s a junior, but he’s been here longer than any of us. He came to Malcolm X when he was only five years old,” Joaquin said, brows furrowed.

Shifting at five years was just as unheard of as Ian’s seventeen. Ian smiled.

“So he’s as strange as me then,” Ian said.

Joaquin just laughed.

“Oh, you are completely, one hundred percent normal in comparison to Mickey Milkovich,” Joaquin said before his smile slipped away into a more thoughtful expression.

“What does that mean?” Ian asked as they approached the dormitories Ian noticed on the way in.

“Like I said, he’s been here so long… Yet not a single person knows what his shift is. Not anybody I’ve talked to at least. He’s pretty smart; anyone who’s ever had a class with him would know—but he’s also a smart ass. He doesn’t talk to people if he can help it, and he never slip-shifts. And he doesn’t have friends,” Joaquin finished.

Ian was new to Changeling culture, but even he knew that you learned someone’s shifted form almost as a kind of greeting, as already shown by Joaquin less than an hour ago. Most of the Changelings Ian had ever had a conversation with supplied the information willingly, even to Normals, and he assumed they would be even more free with their own kind. So for someone to have never revealed it… And to never slip-shift?

Slip-shifting was the occurrence of a Changeling unintentionally shifting, and it was very common among new or young Changelings as Dr. Youens had explained to Ian over the phone. It could even happen to adult Changelings if they didn’t get a chance to exercise their shift forms for long enough or if they were under sufficient duress.

“Huh…” Ian said as he twisted his neck to see if he could catch another glimpse of the boy who was even stranger than himself, but he was long gone.

\---

“This is A Wing!” Joaquin said as they stopped in front of the dormitory. “This is the home of most middle school and High School students. I live on the third floor.”

Joaquin led them inside the building and paused, glancing around before he spotted two people walking in their direction. One was a young woman with frizzy, curled brown hair and the other was a boy who looked like he smelled something sour.

“Bonnie! Trevor!” Joaquin called to get their attention. “Have you seen Mrs. Jackson?”

“Probably in her office around this time,” the girl, Bonnie, said, openly staring Ian up and down.

Joaquin thanked them and turned down the corridor on his right, Ian in tow.

“Bonnie and Trevor are on the Student Guard with me,” Joaquin explained without Ian having to ask.

The building was rather nice, Ian noted, as they walked past rooms and lounges. Some of the doors to rooms were left open, and Ian could see that they were small but not unbearably so. Also, every room he’d seen so far had been a single. That was unusual. Any of the dormitories he’d seen at colleges on TV were primarily two to a room. Ian thought perhaps they could just afford it at the Institutes.

Once or twice he even caught sight of what he assumed to be a shifted Changeling; a cat and a weasel streaking through the hallways, a cheetah lounging on a bed. It was all very strange.

They reached a windowed door at the end of the hallway, and Joaquin knocked lightly before entering.

“Mrs. Jackson? I’ve brought someone to see you,” Joaquin said with a fondness in his voice that told Ian he liked the woman they were about to meet.

A tall, pleasant looking lady looked up from behind a desk, and at the sight of Ian and Joaquin she smiled warmly.

“Oh, hello, darling. You must be Ian?” she asked as she rose.

“Yes,” Ian said.

“Well, I’ll leave you in Mrs. Jackson’s capable hands,” Joaquin said, flashing a smile in her direction.

“Oh, shoo, you,” she said good naturedly.

“Ian, I’ll come by sometime after dinner, and we can go into the forest. How are you feeling?” he asked, and Ian knew what he meant.

“I’m okay. I shifted last night,” Ian says.

“Good, good,” Joaquin said before he disappeared around the doorframe.

“Joaquin’s a good boy,” Mrs. Jackson said warmly when he was gone.

Ian just nodded, not really knowing how to add to that.

“Right now, first we’ll take your measurements, and then we’ll show you to your room. Some of the folks with the Student Guard brought up your things a while ago so they’re already there,” she explained.

“Measurements?” Ian asked.

“For your uniform, darling,” Mrs. Jackson explained.

Oh, so that’s why the Malcolm X Institute uniforms didn’t look like absolute crap—measuring.

“You can pick up your uniforms at the student shop in Malcolm X Hall tomorrow. If you grow out of it at any time just go down there, and they’ll fix you up. I’ll give you directions,” she said helpfully.

As Mrs. Jackson measured she prattled on, and by the time she finished Ian learned that she was the housing coordinator of both A and B Wings. Also, she was highly grateful she wasn’t running the elementary dorms anymore—trying to keep elementary schoolers with the ability to change into animals at will in line was akin to herding cats… Sometimes it was actually herding cats.

“Ready to see your room?” Mrs. Jackson asked when she was finished, and Ian nodded.

She led him up the stair after stair until they finally reached the top floor, six. Ian didn't envy the members of the Student Guard who had to carry all his shit up those stairs. Once in the hallway, Mrs. Jackson only led him past a couple of doors before stopping in front of a door marked 614A. She fiddled with some keys before turning the lock and allowing him to walk in.

Maybe to the usual Changeling tt wasn’t anything special, but to a Southside kid who’d never had less than two brothers in his room, it was opulent. A good sized window was set into the far wall; out of it he could see Malcolm X Grand Hall. There was a writing desk, a large wardrobe on the right wall, and a twin bed, where his boxes and bags were currently stacked. It wasn’t huge, definitely smaller than his room at home, but it wasn’t cramped. He could be more than comfortable here.

“Why are they all singles?” the question slipped out of its own accord.

“Well… Changelings often shift in their sleep or just find it more comfortable to sleep shifted, and, well, you can’t exactly wear pajamas if…” she said, attempting subtlety.

Ian got the message. They all had singles so it wouldn’t be awkward for Changelings to sleep in the nude if they chose to shift. 

“Hello, Mrs. Jackson,” Ian heard a voice behind him say.

When he turned he saw a boy, who must have been close to his age. He had glasses and a plump frame. He was even shorter than Ian’s youngest brother was, and at least twice as round, he couldn’t help but notice.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Mrs. Jackson greeted. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” he said, jovially. “And you?”

“Fine, darling,” she said. “Oh, Chuckie, this is Ian, Ian Gallagher. He’s just moving in.”

Chuckie looked him over once before smiling and extending his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m down at the end of the hall, second to last on the right. I hope you have better luck with your next door neighbors than I have.”

Ian cocked his head to the side in question.

“What?”

He didn’t miss the way Mrs. Jackson’s lip twitched at Chuckie’s words.

“Chuckie’s next door neighbor has interesting sleep habits, that's all,” she said.

“Play music at all hours of the night, he does…” Chuckie said, looking wary. “And where do the explosions keep coming from?”

Ian was totally lost, but Mrs. Jackson just chuckled.

“I’ll see what I can do about the music,” Mrs. Jackson assured Chuckie. “Oh, and Ian, here are your keys. The ridged one is for the dorm and the other is for the building.”

“Thanks,” Ian said sincerely.

“Do you need anything else, darling?” she asked.

“No, thank you.” He almost felt the word ‘ma’am’ fall out of his mouth, and wondered where he was and who he was becoming.

He shut the door and took a deep breath through his nose. This was going well. He was doing well. He let himself rest against the door for a moment. Then, deliberately, he pushed himself into the room and towards the boxes, and Ian Gallagher began to unpack his life.

. . .

People were idiots. Everyday people woke up, went about their business, interacted with other boring people, went home, and went to sleep, only to get up the next morning and do it all over again. Even Changelings, for all their mystery and inexplicable uniqueness, were basically uninteresting. They followed the same routines and interacted in the same fuckin’ unexciting ways.

The irritated shrieking of music split the evening air. Why were they all so lame?

Only once in a blue moon was there a spark, something new, something different, something interesting. But even those were no more than fleeting distractions from the monotony. The origin of the flame was always quickly deduced, and without the fuel of mystery it stuttered and flickered out, leaving only the tedious darkness of his memories once again. This is why Mickey Milkovich dedicated his life to tracking down those little sparks of the unknown, of brilliance, and taming each one…because what else did life have to offer him?

His frustration came to a—very loud—crescendo before an agonised wail cut into his musings.

“Jesus CHRIST. I’m begging you, Milkovich!” a desperate voice pressed through the wall. “I have an essay due tomorrow!”

With a sigh that would have made anyone believe that he was the one being inconvenienced, the dark haired youth put down the electric guitar on his bedspread. Mickey’s mood was only further reduced by his growing awareness of the tugging sensation in his stomach—a little twist, an itch. He hadn’t changed in a few days, not even in sleep. Well, he hadn’t exactly slept much in those past couple days either.

With one more heavy sigh, Mickey resigned himself to the inevitability of a trip into the forest that evening. It’s not that Mickey disliked being a Changeling, quite the contrary, actually. It was one more thing that set him apart from the masses, and sometimes there was a soothing clarity that came from the predatory mind of his shift, comforting when his brain was swirling so frantically. It also provided heightened senses that had been useful to Mickey on more than one occasion. His annoyance came from the fact that it was simply another inconvenience to cater to in addition to his other bodily needs. Less inconvenient than sleep though… or his other interests.

When Mickey reached the field that separated the inner campus and the forest, he beelined towards the changing room at the very end of the long line of booths that allowed Changelings to store their clothes and shift before entering the woods. Each one was about the size of a large closet so that those with larger shift forms could change comfortably. One side had a door with a sliding sign that marked the booth as vacant or in use. Inside were coat hooks, a low bench, and a container to put clothes in. There were also a series of rigged hangers, like little hooks suspended at different levels on the wall with a pressure-release that allowed students to slip into their markers, the collars that distinguished the students from wild animals to avoid accidents once they were shifted, but Mickey couldn’t be bothered with those.

Mickey claimed the very last booth in the row, just as he always did; it was only a few dozen meters away from the treeline. He slid the sign over to read “in use.” Inside he undid his long plaid scarf, removed his jacket, and hung them both up on the coat hook before undressing completely and dropping his unfolded garments into the storage bin. He made sure not to look at his own body as he went through the procedure, keeping his eyes on the walls.

Then the pale adolescent disappeared, and in his place stood a lithe beast with fur like midnight and eyes like ice. He padded smoothly forward, cautiously nosing through the curtain that separated him from the forest. Nobody noticed the shadow that was Mickey Milkovich as he slipped out into the twilight and under the shading trees.


	2. Chapter 2

Joaquin came by to get Ian near dusk when the light was draining out of the sky. From the dorms they made their way across Malcolm X Institute’s main campus and towards the field that separated it from the forest. Ian could see the changing booths Joaquin pointed out earlier in the distance. As they walked Joaquin continued to dump new information into Ian’s already overfilled brain.

“So what do you know about shift-speech?” Joaquin asked him.

Shift-speech, from what Ian understood, was the method that allowed Changelings to speak to one another while in shifted form, almost like a form of telepathy. Other than that though, Ian didn’t know much, so that’s what he told Joaquin.

“That’s a good way of describing it,” Joaquin said in hearing Ian’s description. “But it’s a little more complex… it’s not something we can all just do effortlessly. Lots of factors influence the clarity of the communication, distance, visibility, etc… especially when it comes to the familiarity of the people speaking.”

They were closing in on a pair of booths now. The grass was lush beneath Ian’s feet and he caught sight of a Shetland pony, a zebra and a buzzard chasing each other around the open field.

“Okay, you can go in there. There’s a basket for your clothes on the bench and once you’re shifted just meet me out here. Then we’ll go into the forest,” Joaquin said. “Oh, and take this, too.”

Joaquin pulled something red out of his pocket and tossed it to Ian. He caught it and then looked at what appeared to be a collar, like for a dog or a cat. It was about an inch thick and made of red leather. There was a bowed silver plate affixed to it that read ‘Malcolm X Institute’. He shot Joaquin a questioning glance, raising an eyebrow. Joaquin just laughed.

“Think of it as a uniform,” Joaquin explained. “Every Changeling who can wears a marker to distinguish themselves from wild animals and to show what grade we’re in, since elementary students aren’t allowed into the deep forest without supervision.”

Joaquin pulled out a second collar that looked the same as the one in Ian’s hands, albeit quite a bit more worn. The buzzard flew overhead and Ian caught a flash of yellow around its left foot.

“Okay, makes sense,” Ian chuckled.

Ian entered the booth and undressed quickly, finding himself eager to make the change. Ian measured the collar for a second before buckling it loosely around his neck. Then he took a deep breath and looked inside himself for that hidden part that he’d only uncovered recently, and he unlocked the cage. There was a rush, like wind was running all over his body, and when he opened his eyes everything looked taller than before and a waterfall of smells assaulted him. He could smell everything.

Ian pushed his way through the heavy curtain and onto the grass, where a white German shepherd waited. So that’s where Joaquin’s mixed hair colour came from. His tongue was lolling out and he leaned back on his rump to scratch his ruffed neck with his hind leg. When he saw Ian he rose up and stretched. When he was done he looked up at Ian.

<Cool. Shady. Dark.  **Let’s go.** Breezy.>

The shift speech slipped into Ian’s mind as a mix of mostly feelings and a few words. When the feelings were put together into a concept it was obvious to Ian that Joaquin meant for them to go into the forest now.

Ian attempted to broadcast a feeling of agreement but whether or not Joaquin received it, he began to lope towards the tree line. Ian followed close behind.

Ian decided very quickly that he liked the woods. They were cool and soothing and he began to understand even better the feelings Joaquin had used to identify it. The ground was a little mushy in places, and the musty smell of rotting leaves filled Ian’s muzzle. There were many other smells, too, the smell of wild animals, the smell of other Changelings. For some reason that Ian couldn’t explain, it was impossible to  _ not  _ tell the difference between the two.

Ian and Joaquin mostly just traipsed through the woods without any real aim. They occasionally encountered another Changeling or group, but due to communication barriers the forest wasn’t often a good place to meet or get to know people, so mostly people continued to do their own thing. If Ian had a question he found he could ask it by trying to throw his feelings of confusion towards Joaquin and point to a subject using body language. Joaquin would answer simply if he could through a set of feelings and a few words.

Ian was pleased. He honestly enjoyed being in his shift form. There was a power and awareness he would never be able to fathom in his human form. If being a Changeling was always like this, then maybe the prejudice Normals had against Changelings was just jealousy, because this was fantastic.

It was only when they finally slowed to a walk, ribs heaving a bit from the running, did Ian feel the prickling in his hackles—the feeling of being watched. He scanned the woods calmly but saw nothing. However, the forest was full of sentient Changelings. There could be watching eyes anywhere.

Ian skipped a few steps forward to catch up with Joaquin, moss springy beneath his paws. Ian looked up at his guide to try and ask a question.

What Ian wanted to ask was how long they would be staying out but the feelings got all jumbled up and he knew all that got through to Joaquin was a vague sense of weariness and time.

Joaquin looked back towards him, question in his eyes.

<Tired.  **Go back?** Warm. Comfort.>

Ian easily recognized the feelings associated with ‘home’ as the dorms were to Joaquin. He hoped he’d feel the same about them soon enough.

He was just about to reply when something soft, yet electric, danced over the surface of his being. It was like the brush of a bird’s wings that sent static, gold sparks across the skin of his mind. His head whipped to the side and he focused on the trees at the edge of the clearing, looking for something… but he saw nothing in the shadows.

\---

Mickey wandered in the silence, weaving in and out of the trees and the brush. It was spring and the green was returning to the forest. The dampness under his sensitive paw pads told him the temperature hadn’t risen high enough today for any real evaporation to occur. Mickey moved nearly aimlessly but took inventory of the forest, and his fellow Changelings through it, as he went.

Mickey could tell from the swooping gouges in the moss of the south meadow that the high school students had been holding races again, and, upon opening his mouth to draw the forest air over the gland in the roof of his mouth, could tell the races were about sex. Jesus, what wasn’t, for teenagers, no matter the species?

The silent leopard continued on his way and he was considering taking the long way around to one of the small lakes on the Institute’s property. He worked out that by the time he reached it and made his way back, he would have satisfied the basic requirements of the animal inside of him, and it would allow him to refrain from changing for at least another three days; but then he heard the whispers—the muffled thoughts bouncing against the walls of his mind. Where was that coming from?

It was like a flutter against his consciousness, then perhaps a word or two. It sounded like someone was trying to talk to him from too far away—but he didn’t speak with anyone here.

Shift speech took practice, and while Mickey elected not to speak to his school peers, having come from a completely changed household, as well as the sheer amount of time he’d been able to shift, meant that Mickey could, when necessary, speak fluently to most Changelings he knew and even some strangers, even though it didn’t necessarily go both ways. This wasn’t Mickey speaking, though. This was someone speaking to him, and it wasn’t the voice of a teacher. There weren’t many students on campus adept enough at shift speech to talk to him… but none of them would bother trying to speak to him because nobody knew him.

So then whose words floated faintly but effortlessly into his mind now?

Mickey followed the whispers, mind crackling with excitement. There was something new. His carefully controlled brain was on a loop, begging whatever this thing was not to be boring.

As he grew closer, the bubbles of thought became clearer, ‘louder’. Mickey stayed silent as he approached the sound of two figures walking through a clearing in the trees. With a burst of speed, Mickey overtook them and bolted up a tree to get a proper look.

Two fuckin’ dogs- that was Mickey’s snap assessment and then thousands of details assaulted him as they always did, the things no one else saw. There was a German shepherd padding just ahead of what appeared to be a red wolf. Mickey recognized the shepherd as Joaquin Galindo—member of the student guard, friendly, well-liked by his teachers, smart enough not to fuck with Mickey, and pathetically eager to please. It took Mickey no more than two seconds to come to the conclusion that he couldn’t be the one who had called Mickey here.

So then he moved on to the wolf. It walked a few steps behind Joaquin, by his left flank, and the way he kept looking at the shepherd indicated to Mickey that it was following Joaquin. Mickey’s mind pulled up a parallel from earlier that day. A red-haired boy who must have been about sixteen? Seventeen? Probably seventeen—he’d been following Joaquin… he was a new Changeling. It was the only explanation, even if the boy was stupid old for a first shift but oh, that was good. That was fascinating. Looking for it now, Mickey noticed the extra attention the wolf had been giving to smelling the air, to the use of four legs. Yeah, he was perfectly new.

The wolf looked over to Joaquin as if getting ready to ask a question. Another thought burst into his mind, surprising him.

<Excitement. Interest.  **How long do we stay out?** Wariness. A free urge to run.>

The clarity of not just the words but the feelings surrounding them was mind blowing. Mickey could understand this new Changeling as if they were having a conversation in human form. No- even better than a human conversation. Mickey heard so much more of the Changeling’s emotions in the shift speech.

On top of that, the question was obviously aimed at Joaquin, who Mickey could tell hadn’t heard more than the flash of fuzzy, wordless emotions that characterised new Changelings' shift speech. Yet Mickey could hear him as clear as he could see the moon in the sky.

There it was. That wonderful, beautiful spark. His excitement was palpable and his thrill rose to a peak as a canine head whipped towards him in the dark—as if it heard his pleasure. Mickey knew the shadows hid him but clear eyes seemed to stare straight into him. It sent a shiver up his spine, the mystery.

This most certainly was new.

This was interesting.

. . .

In the next few days Ian continued to venture into the forest with Joaquin, and occasionally Chuckie, the shorter, rounder boy from his floor. Chuckie’s shift, however, was a raccoon, and therefore often had trouble keeping up with the wolf and shepherd. So on those days they usually stuck to shorter visits into the forest. Ian often felt like he was being watched when he ventured under the trees. Sometimes there was a pressure on his mind, or a crackle like on that first night, and once he was certain he heard his name called clear as a bell, but Joaquin swore he hadn’t said a word. Though, with Ian’s minimal shift speaking abilities, perhaps Joaquin had just misunderstood his questioning.

Ian started classes at Malcolm X. He wasn’t going to kid himself; his timing had been absolutely trash—he was barely a High Schooler anymore, but he still had to complete his SAT’s and yet he had made the Change at the least opportune moment. His only consolation was that spring semester had just started so it wasn’t taking too much effort to catch up with the Institute classwork and the teachers were more than accommodating.

Karen Jackson, the girl Joaquin introduced him to on his first day, was in his math class and had chemistry just before Ian, so they spoke regularly in class, and in the short break between their chemistry classes. Karen had a certain lack of a way with words but she was nice enough, and didn’t treat Ian any differently because of his late Change.

Ian noticed she was especially awkward after chemistry each day and it wasn’t until his third day of class that he found out why. Karen was so distracted coming out of chemistry that day that she almost passed right by Ian where he stood in front of an information table in the corridor. She seemed to be trying to engage a shorter, dark haired boy in conversation—almost completely unsuccessfully.

“Karen?” he said when she passed him by.

Her head snapped around.

“Oh! Ian!” she said in surprise.

The boy’s head turned as well. Ian recognized him now. It was the student he ran into on Joaquin’s tour. The way he looked at Ian now was strange—almost like he was surprised to see him there. His eyes focused sharply for a second, like he was assessing the taller boy. Then he spun on his heel and continued down the hallway, leaving Karen looking a little lost.

“Ah… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Ian apologized.

Karen just looked down at the floor and smiled in her personal defence.

“Oh, no, it’s absolutely fine… he’s always like that… always,” she finished.

She didn’t meet Ian’s eyes but he could hear it in her voice—Karen had a crush, though, sadly an unrequited one apparently. For his own part, Ian gazed curiously down the hall but there was no sign of the boy anymore.

“That was Mickey Milkovich, right?” Ian asked.

Karen looked up quickly.

“You know Mickey?” she asked.

“Not really. We just bumped into each other a few days ago when I was on my tour,” Ian explained.

“Oh… he’s my lab partner,” Karen said.

“Oh, yeah? Is he really as dangerous as Joaquin says?” Ian asked, interested in the validity of everything Joaquin said about the boy, but had thought it rude to ask.

Karen was just looking at him like he’d said something silly—Karen, the most gossipy person he’d ever met.

“Yes… he’s that, but smart, too,” Karen said, as she was talking about something tempting.

Ian didn’t know how exactly to respond to that. He’d known for a few years that girls weren’t really his thing, but hadn’t had much experience with boys either. It seemed safe enough to encourage Karen’s friendship: he needed all the friends he could get, here.

. . .

About a week after Ian arrived at the Malcolm X Institute he lay awake in his twin bed, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling. He hadn’t gone into the forest or shifted much at all in the past forty eight hours and now there was a twisting, tugging sensation just below his heart. He figured he might be able to shift in the room and try and sleep like that, and while that was the most comfortable way to sleep on any given night, right now the wolf in him wanted to run, to breathe fresh air.

That was how Ian ended up crossing the damp grass of the field between A Wing and the forest. He had pulled on a thick tee-shirt but he still had his fisted hands stuffed firmly under his arms to ward off the cold.

Ian had to admit once again that it felt incredible to shift into his wolf form. The experience of changing was like you had been tied up with restraints around your chest and then all of them just fell away at once. Once Ian stood on four legs, he took a moment to stretch, hard nails curling into the soft ground with pleasure. He shook his head once, moving his marker into the most comfortable place beneath his ruff. Then Ian started to run.

It wasn’t exactly a slow run but it was a leisurely pace for Ian’s fit, canine body. He could sustain it for hours if need be. This body was built for endurance. If only he could draw from that during football games…

Ian ran and ran, reveling in the simplicity of speed and scent, but then he felt it—the tickle in his mind. He stopped suddenly, paws digging little ruts in the dirt.

Finally alone, Ian’s curiosity got the best of him and he wandered in the direction he thought the feeling came from. His nose worked madly. There was definitely something alive and breathing nearby.

<Curiosity.  **Hello?** Caution.>

Ian knew it was probably pointless to call with his shift-speech abilities, but he tried anyway. The smell was surely the scent of a Changeling.

**< Jesus, I can fuckin’ hear you. I’ve been hearing you since you arrived… Calm your tits.>**

Ian spun in place, ears back and entire body snapping with tension. His muzzle pointed up a tree and he met a pair of steel blue eyes. They tilted, considering.

<Surprise.  **Even the direction’s obvious to you, as if I spoke aloud.** >

A multitude of vague, shadowed feelings flickered on the edge of Ian’s consciousness, all connected to the intense eyes above. Then, in a single fluid motion, the speaker dropped from the tree and landed on the soft ground.

< **A panther…** >

Ian thought it had been a private musing, but apparently not. The heavy black head rose up aristocratically.

< **Melanistic leopard. Panther is a dreadfully nonspecific term that is used to refer to many black felines—jaguars, cougars, bobcats and even black wild cats.** >

So a  _ pretentious  _ panther. Ian was fairly sure he’d kept that comment in his own head but the narrowing of the Changeling’s eyes made him uncertain.

< **If you care I’m a red wolf** > Ian supplied.

< **Fuckin’ obvious. You’re Ian Gallagher. >**

Ian’s ears twisted forward and his head jerked slightly back in surprise.

< **What? I mean… yeah, but how did you know that? Who I am, I mean.** >

Not that Ian had been super secretive, but he’d kept a fairly low profile in his classes so far, and hadn’t told more than a few people what his shift was.

The panther rose up and began to circle him, making Ian feel a little uncomfortable, ears dropping back into a more defensive position.

< **I told you that I;ve been hearing you. So I followed and saw you in the forest. To start, the way you move in this place is still unsure. You use your own scent trail to get back to the field, plus your collar is brand new. Obviously you are a new student, and the way you move your head when you are smelling shows how unused to having such heightened senses you are, so you aren’t a transfer student but a new Changeling altogether, but your shift is fully mature. The only new Changeling on campus who would be old enough for their shift to look like yours is Ian Gallagher.** >

Ian was about to reply when the panther flipped the direction of his contemplating circle, his left side now visible to Ian. If he hadn’t been a wolf with an inability to make such a noise, Ian would have gasped.

The full moon lit the forest well enough but even without the light it would have been hard to miss the raking black scars marring the panther’s beautiful pelt, all the way from his shoulder to his stomach. On a human it would have run from a shoulder blade to all the way to a point between navel and hip.

It was clear that the panther had noticed his scrutiny and in response its ears flattened and its eyes narrowed for just a second before he abruptly switched directions again, hiding the scars from view. And then Ian’s mind was nearly assaulted.

< **When did you injure your knee?** >

If the panther had been trying to distract him he had been wildly successful.

<Confusion.  **What?** >

<Impatience.  **Your knee, when did it get injured? I know it was from football but when?** >

Ian was floored.

< **Months ago.** >

The panther’s eyes closed and his head dipped to the side as if Ian’s answer had confirmed a theory.

< **How could you** possibly  **know that?** Disbelief.>

< **I’ve seen you around campus,** > was all he said at first but when Ian narrowed his eyes, the panther’s tail waved in apparent pleasure. 

Ian knew that his mouth was parted. He leaned back on his haunches.

< **Wow… ok.** >

The panther stopped and sat down abruptly, looking at Ian intently.

< **So are you defense or offence?** >

Ian would have chuckled.

< **Offence, substitute defence... at least I was. I’m trying out for Malcolm X’s team tomorrow.** >

The steel eyes warmed to pale blue.

< **Good to fuckin’ know.** >

Ian’s mouth curled into a wolfy smile and he looked out into the forest, away from the baffling creature.

The mysterious Changeling paused and then stood suddenly. Ian held fast as the big cat thoroughly invaded his personal space. Ian’s ears were twisted forward as two clear blue eyes studied him through a sideways glance. He was close enough that all Ian would have to do was turn his head to stick his cold, wet nose into his fluffy, upstanding ear. Ian wondered idly how the jumpy cat would react. Ian met his eyes evenly.

< **Hmm… interesting…** >

Then the panther was gone, disappearing into the protection of the trees. It should have bothered Ian that he didn’t know who the strange Changeling was, or frustrated him that he had been too distracted to even remember to ask his name, but there would be time for that tomorrow. Right now Ian only felt the pulse against his mind. He could tell that the Changeling had tried to cover his feelings but when he had spoken it slipped through the gap. The panther had been interested, flooded with curiosity and maybe more?

A wheezing noise and a little bark escaped Ian’s throat, the wolf equivalent of laughter.

So a pretentious, _queer_ panther then.


	3. Chapter 3

That night, once Ian made it back to his room, he spent even more time staring sleeplessly at the ceiling, imagining cold, arctic eyes staring back. His sheets were tangled around his legs and his blanket was tossed aside. He’d pulled off his shirt a while ago. Why did they keep this place so hot? Ian kept glancing at the clock, ticking away the minutes, like a countdown until he wouldn’t have time to get enough sleep to be functional tomorrow, let alone make a football team.

Finally fed up, Ian hopped out of bed and shoved the window open as wide as it could go. The cold air hit him, making him shudder. He shed his pajama trousers and they fell to the floor, joining his discarded tee-shirt. Then he dropped from two legs to four and jumped back on the bed. He dug himself a little nest of blankets and collapsed; burying his nose under his pillow, thick fur protecting him from the chilling draft. Ian would find out who the panther was tomorrow. He’d ask Joaquin—Joaquin might know.

It wasn’t long before Ian finally lost consciousness and slipped into strange dreams of black cats, green woods and piercing eyes.

. . .

The next morning Ian felt much more rested than anyone who had slept so little had a right to. He sat, thinking, across the table from Joaquin, who also seemed fully awake and was focusing intently on shoveling as much bacon, eggs and toast down his throat as he possibly could. The dining hall was located on the first floor of A Wing and was relatively quiet, as most students were still asleep or too lazy to do more than grab a slice of toast on their way to classes.

For his part Ian was more focused on his coffee than the mediocre breakfast that was provided by the school.

“Do you know anyone with a panther shift?” Ian asked, breaking into the sound of cutlery on plates.

Joaquin glanced up at him, pausing in his shoveling.

“A panther shift?”

Ian nodded and Joaquin cocked his head to the side and looked up as he chewed a mouthful of toast, obviously scanning his memory bank.

“I don’t think so,” he finally said. “What colour was its marker?”

“Wasn’t wearing one,” Ian said.

At that, Joaquin nodded and looked back to his food as if the mystery had been solved without Ian knowing it.

“Probably a Wanderer then,” he said around a mouthful of eggs. “It’s not uncommon for them to drift through Malcolm X’s forest. They smell just like us so it wouldn’t be hard to mix it up.”

Joaquin tapped his nose as he said this and Ian knew what he meant. They were both canine shifts so identified many things by scent alone.

Ian had heard about Wanderers. They were Changelings who permanently shifted, and then did as their name implied—they wandered. As far as Ian knew, there was no rhyme or reason to it. A Changeling would get this fever, and then it would go away. They’d be fine, but in the next few days the Changeling would shift, wander into the wilderness and never return. Once it started it couldn’t be stopped. It was an accepted fact among Changelings.

Ian wasn’t sure if his panther fit into the stories he’d heard about Wanderers and he was about to ask more but was distracted.

“So you’re going to try out for the football team today, right?” Joaquin asked as he picked a powdered donut off his plate.

When Ian visited Dr. Youens the other day as the man had requested, the counselor had helped him connect with the football team—after he had been sure Ian was adjusting okay. Actually, they had both been surprised with how well Ian was getting along. It’s not that Ian had been unhappy with his old life—it had just been… nothing. Nothing ever happened to the Normal that was Ian Gallagher. It was almost like he’d been waiting for something, and now he knew what that something had been, at least a part of it. Ian was still looking for a true purpose of course, but it was like his Change was him finally receiving the first piece of that puzzle. He supposed he should be missing his siblings, and though it wasn’t like he was happy to be gone, it felt right. His parents hadn’t been around, so Ian had never been very emotionally or socially dependent on them. He hadn’t expected or wanted the Change but it had inadvertently supplied Ian with many things he had wanted.

“Umm… yeah,” Ian replied, dropping out of his reverie. “At three.”

Joaquin bobbed his head and took another bite of his donut.

“Well, good luck,” Joaquin said, returning his focus to the last remnants of his breakfast.

Ian drained the last of his coffee.

“Thanks, but let’s hope I don’t need it…”

. . .

At three o’clock on the dot, Ian found himself at the edge of the Institute’s practice field. As he approached, a tall Black boy in Malcolm X’s black and silver colors came to meet him. He loped over and smiled easily as he came close.

“Ian Gallagher?” he asked and Ian nodded, returning the smile. “Caleb Johnson.”

Ian took the offered hand, clasping back with equal strength, knowing now was the time to make a good impression.

When Caleb took his hand back, he gave Ian a once over with his eyes, and he could easily see what Caleb was thinking—he’d have to make sure he proved that size wasn’t all that mattered by the end of this tryout.

“Shift?” Caleb asked.

“Hm?” Ian looked up. “Oh, Red wolf. You?”

Caleb was straightforward—honest. Ian liked that. He identified.

Ian didn’t miss the fact that he had used the word the panther had for his shift. Caleb’s face lit up, though, and he clapped his hand down on Ian’s shoulder.

“Oh, awesome! That’s what I like to hear. I wonder what other fierce things you’re hiding inside, Gallagher. I’m an elk myself, and don’t make a rack joke, but yes, mine is quite nice.”

He winked and Ian couldn’t help but laugh, even if he did think him the worst perpetrator of inappropriate rack jokes.

Ian had no trouble noticing Caleb’s excitement when he said he had a wolf shift. While there wasn’t a whole lot of scientific evidence on the subject, most Changelings believed there was a lot to be said about a person from their shift. Ian didn’t have enough personal experience in the area to have much of an opinion on the subject himself but he hadn’t seen any evidence against the generally accepted theory either.

“So ready to get started?”

“I don’t see any reason why not,” Ian said; all of Ian’s nervousness had been diffused by Caleb’s relaxed personality and easy joking.

“Hey! Kash!” Caleb called towards the group of guys warming up on the pitch.

A taller boy with dark skin and hair separated from the group and trotted over. He was well muscled and his eyes were sharp.

“What’s up, Caleb?” the boy asked.

“This is Ian Gallagher. He’s our new potential,” Caleb explained. “Ian this is Kash Karib.”

His dark eyes ran up and down Ian as Caleb’s had, sizing him up, quite literally. There was only a fraction of hesitation before Kash smiled and offered his hand.

“Nice to meet you. Is he any good?” Kash added to Caleb.

“That’s for us to find out! Let’s get going.”

Ian’s tryout wasn’t so much a one on one evaluation as a trial practise. Ian ran drills with the team, Caleb and Seb, as well as the coach, an eagle shift by the name of Hills, who watched him play and interact with the team. Ian pushed himself. His injury had forced him to stop playing for a while and he was worried he’d be too rusty but as always, a strange, hostile calm came over Ian when he was faced with the challenge of this brutal game.

By the end of practise Ian was bruised, sweaty, exhausted, and completely elated. Oh, how he’d missed this. Caleb and Kash approached him. Everyone was still trying to catch their breath.

“How’d I do?” Ian huffed.

“Impressively,” Seb smiled, his own chest rising and falling quickly.

“Fantastic,” Caleb added. “Never seen someone so calm in the face of getting trampled. You’ve got hunter’s eyes is what you have, Ian Gallagher.”

Ian felt the back of his neck go even redder than it already was under the praise.

“So am I in?” Ian had to ask.

“’Course you’re in!” Caleb said enthusiastically. “Practises are on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Don’t be late!”

Caleb and Kash then turned and left Ian basking in the pleasure of making a team. It’s not that Ian had been particularly worried, but being chosen always felt good.

. . .

Ian didn’t really have time to go into the forest on his own for the next few days. He had football and the first big essay for school to finish before Friday. The few times he had gone into the woods it was either with Joaquin or Chuckie, and Ian saw no sign of the elusive panther. This nagged him more than he would have thought. Ian would have assumed the creature had moved on if not for the sporadic flicker at the edge of his mind.

Occasionally it was stronger than a flicker and very occasionally Ian would accidentally think aloud and the air would think back. Ian might comment on a person or animal nearby and if he ever, ever said anything that was not the absolute truth there was inevitably a whisper of correction in his mind.

< **Fuckin’ moron. Chuckie couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a proctologist.** >

Every time Ian had to try very hard not to bark out in laughter and he often failed. For a Changeling that was hiding from people he was noisy as fuck.

<Confusion. Concern.>

This was a tentative question from Chuckie when a wheezy bark slipped out unprompted. Ian was studied through the masked eyes of his raccoon shift.

<Void. Contentment.>

‘It’s nothing,’ the message meant. The raccoon just shrugged his furry shoulders and they continued on. Ian’s eyes scanned the trees for a condescending presence.

. . .

Mickey Milkovich was a terrible student. One would expect him to be a perfect example of a brilliant student—he was quiet, but he was a delinquent, the absolute worst of students. If he thought the assignment or content of a class was valid or useful he would do his work, he might even pay attention in class if it was a lucky day for his teachers, but if Mickey thought an assignment was pointless, or the topic was useless, you could kiss any hope of receiving classwork on it goodbye.

He always got top grades on the work he did do, and on any exams he took, which meant he never failed the course, but that only infuriated his teachers more because it validated his actions. Usually they wondered why he even bothered to continue school at all. What his teachers and professors didn't know was that ‘the hands that be’ had threatened him if he didn’t finish school.

Currently the arrogant child sat at the back of a second year University bio-chem class. He’d long ago gained permission to take the university courses at Malcolm X. He’d already read, absorbed, and stored all the information that the course had to offer, but taking it gave Mickey access to labs and, even better, chemicals.

Now though, the professor was just droning on and on and Mickey was so bored that he wanted to run his head through a wall. The only thing that stopped him from doing just that were the thoughts of his wolf—the anomaly that was Ian Gallagher. Ian was interesting. He was a late Change, a timing almost as rare as Mickey’s own. Then, there was the shift-speech—they could speak as easily as if they were in human form—an open bond. Mickey couldn’t mistake the symptoms; the diagnosis was easy. But those things only defined what Ian was, and who the young Changeling was… that was a whole other matter of an entirely more fascinating nature. His personality, the way he reacted to Mickey, to life, was like nobody else he’d ever met. He was easily impressed but not easily won over; he was cautious but not easily startled, and he was smart—not a genius, not brilliant, but surely a cut above most of the idiots that Mickey usually found it unbearable to interact with.

But Ian hadn’t been out to the woods alone in days, which certainly didn’t ease his mounting irritation. He’d only been out with those stupid friends of his and he’d been exhausted even then. Mickey could tell. He felt that he barely had a hope of seeing him for a number of days more on top of the last three. So currently he was running on just the lightest slips of thoughts, which he was of course able to learn much from, but not nearly as much as he wanted. It was agonizing and unfair.

Mickey was distracted from his musing—pouting—by the sound of a door opening to his right. By now they were working on practise equations so the entry of one student shouldn’t have been noticed by the masses, but this student was Tami Tamietti, a young fox-shift with the whole Malcolm X Institute firmly situated under her stiletto heel. Mickey knew it was mostly because she regularly slept with professors, teachers and anyone else she needed something from. One would assume that information would have been valuable, that it would give Mickey power over the woman if he ever had an interest, but it wouldn’t. Tami never hid her abilities or her methods and it rarely made them any less effective.

Now, Mickey certainly wasn’t friends with Tami Tamietti, but she was different from the majority of the population in that she was one of the few students at the Malcolm X Institute who never hesitated to speak directly to him—whether his disapproval of this habit got through to her or not was another matter entirely.

The young woman swayed down the aisle, hips swinging confidently, as they always did. She approached the professor. She then leaned upon the desk and put on a highly convincing apologetic mask. It set Mickey’s teeth on edge that he couldn’t help but feel a grudging admiration of the woman. He saw how she opened her eyes wide and leaned in close. She was speaking and as she did her hand moved forward and then… contact—just the lightest brush of fingers over knuckles, but it achieved the intended goal with graceful ease. It was amazing what contact could do. Even from his seat, Mickey could see Dr. Hanisian’s neck go red around his collar and he would bet money on noticeable pupil dilation. The man nodded and stuttered a few words and then Tami smiled. She reintroduced the touch—reward—and then she moved away.

Mickey rolled his eyes and idly wrote an answer to a chemistry problem just for something to do.

“Needed an extension on a paper?” Mickey couldn’t help but toss out as she passed.

He sighed internally. He was going to pay for his lack of self-control.

She stopped and smiled down at him. Three steps and she was leaning on his desk just as she had Dr. Hanisian’s.

“I’m just  _ so  _ busy,” she said with a so-obviously-faked troubled expression that could only make Mickey roll his eyes again and go back to his work, determined to ignore her.

Unfortunately he was wildly unsuccessful and his unbearable need to have the last word got the best of him. 

“Your intellect is fuckin’ wasted on you,” he spat.

Tami only laughed, irritating him further as she leaned off his desk.

“Oh, quite the contrary,” she said, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “I believe it’s you who could learn a thing or two about application and wiles.”

Mickey leaned away from her intrusion of his personal space, which was probably hypocritical but he really didn’t care.

Then she was gone, leaving Mickey scowling and still definitely not pouting.

. . .

Four whole days passed before Ian was finally able to make it out to the woods alone. Coach Hills had been working him to the bone to get him back up to fitness. He was more out of shape than he had been in a long while, his knee having prevented him from playing for far too long. In direct response to all of this renewed athleticism, Ian was falling directly into bed as soon as he finished his homework for the night and then he slept like the dead, but today there hadn’t been practise and he was itching for a run in the moonlight. He considered asking Joaquin to join him but he was secretly hoping to encounter the panther and he’d sensed the Changeling’s disapproval of his usual company whenever he’d inadvertently touched minds with him in the past few days.

Ian sprinted up the bank of the creek and reveled in the speed. There was mist hanging in the air and the tendrils threaded through his long guard hairs as he ran. There was really no comparison to the freedom he felt just going like this.

He kept his mind open, feeling for any trace of the panther. For a while there was nothing. Then, that familiar static struck him. He slowed gracefully, no longer surprised by the feeling.

Now where was that smug shadow?

Ian wandered through the mist, towards where he thought the spark had originated. It had been small though, and indistinct, which made it difficult to tell.

< **Where are you?** > he called into the night.

There was no distinct response.

<Challenge. Curiosity.>

For some reason Ian couldn’t put into words, Ian understood that the panther wanted to… test him. To see if Ian could find him? By voice? By smell? He couldn’t be sure.

< **I know you can hear me.** >

Ian wasn’t particularly in the mood for hunting a black leopard in the dark even if he probably could do so if he applied himself. So perhaps it was his instincts trying to help him avoid such a prospect that caused him to say what he said next.

< **Oh, come on, now… This is ridiculous… Here pussy-pussy—** >

<Indignation! Surprise. Disapproval.>

Then Ian heard something heavy drop to the damp forest floor only a dozen or so metres ahead of him. He didn’t hesitate to trot towards it.

< **I'm a melanistic leopard** .  **Not—a—pussy.** > the panther said crossly as Ian came close enough to see him.

His claws dug into the loam and his strong shoulders were rolled back proudly and Ian smiled with his eyes. If he’d been human at the moment he may have laughed.

< **Yeah, yeah, sorry. My bad.** >

The panther’s sky-blue eyes narrowed, skepticism flowing off him in waves. He seemed to decide to let it go when Ian began to walk again. He still felt too restless to sit still and, as he’d hoped, the panther followed him. Ian thought the panther was deliberately staying on his left, so only his unmarred, right side was visible to Ian.

Ian would notice this become a habit whenever they’d walk in this fashion in the coming weeks.

Currently, they padded forward in silence, but after no more than a minute before Ian spoke.

< **Are you a Wanderer?** > he asked.

The panther’s tail lashed and a light huff of a hiss slipped from his lungs.

< **Of fuckin’ course not. Don’t be an idiot. If I was, how would we even be talking?** >

Ian glanced back at the large creature. The fur on his shoulders stuck up in irritation at Ian’s apparently stupid question. Ian wondered, now and many times later, why the panther followed him at all if he so often annoyed him, but then… the world as a whole seemed to annoy the Changeling so perhaps it wasn’t a variable.

< **Wanderers can’t talk?** > Ian asked, ignoring the insult that had been paired with the rhetorical inquiry.

< **Of course not. All Changelings know Wanderers are barely more than true animals after their last shift. Some say brand new Wanderers may be able to convey something** ,  **but Wanderers are completely gone,** > the panther quickly explained.

Since Ian arrived at Malcolm X, he realized just how little the general public understood about Changelings beyond the basic symptoms of their condition, and having been part of that ‘general public’ up until a few weeks ago, Ian’s knowledge was lacking. He thought he’d been taking his ignorance in good grace at least, and was attempting to abate it sooner rather than later. ‘Wait, what?’ was currently Ian Gallagher’s favourite phrase.

< **Ok… you gotta be a student then. You sound too young to be a teacher.** >

Ian had the urge to just cut straight to the point and ask ‘who are you?’ but for some reason it felt like cheating.

< **Fuckin’ brilliant deduction.** >

The tone was dry and condescending and Ian had to resist the urge to swat the big cat upside the head with his tail.

< **If you’re a student, then why don’t you wear a marker?** > Ian asked, aware of the red leather strap around his own neck.

They were approaching the creek again. Ian liked the creek and his aimless wanderings often aimed him there.

< **The markers’ role is to stop Changelings who enjoy hunting in their shift forms from accidentally eating other Changelings who may be unable to shift-speak effectively enough to communicate that they aren’t food in the heat of the moment, but nobody in their right mind going to** **_accidentally_ ** **hunt a panther.** >

< **Fair enough.** Amusement.>

Ian glanced over his shoulder and in response the panther’s furry ears swivelled forward attentively. Ian smiled, as much as he possibly could in this form, and then something he never expected came to pass. The panther’s face  _ relaxed _ , somehow. It wasn’t a smile. But it wasn’t the perpetual scowl he seemed to wear mentally either. Ian wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone exactly how he knew, as it wasn’t as if the panther’s mouth moved at all—but perhaps it was the light shift in his eyes, the way they warmed from cloudy grey to blue, or maybe he just felt it on the edge of his mind, but whatever it was, the panther was almost smiling at Ian. It was new, and Ian liked it. There was more than coldness and arrogant disdain in this Changeling then, Ian thought.

After that night Ian made a point of coming to the forest alone as often as he could. The panther wasn’t always there but much more often than not, the shadow would appear. He was highly fickle though and Ian quickly learned the rules of engagement.

Rule one, do not ask, talk about, or more than glance at the strange Changeling’s scars. Any encounter would immediately be aborted if Ian broke this rule. Ian had learned this the hard way on one occasion.

That evening the two Changelings were relaxing in a copse of thickly trunked trees when the panther seemed to forget himself and stretched luxuriously, left side completely in view, scars exposed. Ian couldn’t help it, he looked and before he even had a chance to realize his slip, as he often failed to keep his words properly inside his head where they belonged, the words escaped into the air.

< **What are they from?** >

It was hushed and tentative but he really hadn’t meant to ask. Ian wasn’t stupid and he knew better, as looking alone had the Changeling up a tree and refusing to come down more than once before. But he’d been so relaxed and the inquiry slipped into the open. It was too late, though. The skittish creature tensed and then stalked away, head low, until he reached the closest, densely leaved tree and climbed up and out of sight.

Ian apologized repeatedly, and even called him childish once, but nothing he said would convince the great cat to descend from his hidden perch that day.

Fortunately though, no matter what pitfall Ian fell into on any given night, with each new moon he seemed to be given a clean slate.

Rule two was more self-inflicted than laid upon him. Ian was not allowed to ask who the panther was. It may have been Ian’s own rule but it still counted and seemed to be mutually agreed upon. The panther hadn’t asked who Ian was, but found out on his own, and Ian wouldn’t ask either. His eyes were always open though, in class, in the corridors, in the dining halls, for any sign that would give the Changeling away. But he found nothing. The panther was much better at this than Ian could expect and sometimes he wondered if the Changeling was even real at all, and not just some psychic phantom that appeared in the Forest.

And yet, each day Ian still looked. Every day Ian listened, and each day that passed, the part of his mind that was weighed down by the mystery of the sharp eyed panther grew a little larger.


	4. Chapter 4

It was his eyes that gave him away in the end. Every logical clue Ian had tried to apply, trying to estimate his age, eavesdropping for that arrogant tone, the condescending sentence structure—he’d even tried to guess what his human form would look like, for all the good that did—all these attempts had been absolute failures, and in the end it was a pair of eyes that had ended the game.

This time it was Ian who didn’t see Karen as she came out of her chemistry class. He was checking over his chemistry homework. He heard the students coming out of class, and normally he would have begun to pick Karen out of the crowd, but he was second guessing his answer to question six, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Ian?” Karen’s voice cut into his stream of thought on oxidation reactions.

Ian looked up. Karen stood smiling in front of him. Her hair was down today and a yellow band pulled her bangs away from her face. Ian noticed all this in the half second it took for him to begin to open his mouth to greet his friend and then to feel the greeting die in his throat as a shape moved behind her.

It was the boy he’d crashed into on his first day at the Malcolm X Institute, the boy who looked at him strangely when he was waiting for Karen the other day—Mickey Milkovich. Maybe it was the way his dark hair shone like ebony in the fluorescent lighting, though Ian was pretty sure its true colour was a shade of brown, that snagged his attention or maybe it was the way his head twitched to the side when Karen said Ian’s name, but whatever it was, it caused Ian’s gaze to flick downwards for the second it took to lock eyes with a strangely familiar stare.

Like a flash bulb bursting in front of his eyes, Ian saw black fur across hunched shoulders, curved claws digging into tree bark, whiskers twitching in surprise.

They both seemed frozen for a moment. Mickey recovered first and his eyes closed, releasing Ian before he turned away, jacket flaring dramatically. It only brought another image of a tail swishing in agitation as an irritated feline made an exit.

“Ah—it’s him!” Ian’s throat finally unstuck.

Ian’s lips were parted lightly as his head mechanically tracked the Changeling all the way down the corridor and around a corner, seemingly the only part of Ian that wasn’t still mostly paralyzed. Then he was out of sight and Ian’s body caught up with his mind. He lurched forward suddenly.

“I... I’m sorry,” Ian tripped over an apology thrown in Karen’s direction and began moving down the corridor. “I’ll catch up with you later, Karen.”

The last comment was hastily tossed over his shoulder.

“Ah… ah, okay,” he heard Karen utter in confusion as he rushed away.

Ian was slowed by the large numbers of students that were now pouring out of every door in front of him, and the heavy chemistry book under his arm seemed to catch its corners on an inexplicable amount of backpacks and messenger bags. Ian dodged another student to turn down the small corridor he thought the Changeling had disappeared into.

At first Ian thought he’d been mistaken and the odd boy known as Mickey Milkovich had disappeared completely, but he judged the short length of the hallway and the very few doors that marked its walls and decided that it was most reasonable to assume Milkovich could have vanished into any one of them before Ian caught up. He hesitated now though, and in his pause he was ever more aware of the fact that he had just chased—still was chasing—a fellow student through Malcolm X Hall. What was he doing? He should really be getting back to the chemistry room; classes would be starting soon.

Instead, Ian compromised. There was a study hall at the end of the corridor. It wouldn’t seem crazy to walk into a public study hall, so he would just check there and if he didn’t find what he was looking for there he would go straight back to class.

Ian was late for chemistry that day.

Ian stopped again in the doorway to the study hall, head up and scanning, heavy textbook still under his arm. The students in the seats closest to the door looked up at him questioningly but they barely registered in Ian’s mind. Ian was about to give up when he finally saw him, tucked in a corner with his nose buried in a book at least twice as thick as Ian’s chemistry text.

Ian smiled and made a beeline for the back table. The dark haired Changeling didn’t look up when Ian came to a stop beside him. It may have been an off putting response to a stranger, but each terse action made by Mickey only solidified Ian’s belief that Mickey Milkovich wasn’t a stranger at all.

“You’re the leopard, aren’t you?” Ian blurted when he was close.

Mickey finally looked up at him. It made Ian think that if he’d tried a little harder he may have indeed been able to match the Changeling to his shift on looks. The full lips, the ice blue eyes, the intensity that shrouded him, now that Ian knew who he was, the two images became inseparable in his mind.

“Took you long enough to fuckin’ figure it out,” he said dryly.

Ian only smiled wider.

“Well, not all of us are psychic,” Ian teased.

In response, Mickey let out an offended huff.

“I'm not psychic. What I do is  _ observe _ ,” Mickey spat.

“What kind of observations?” Ian asked, honestly curious.

Mickey’s disdain softened to a more subtle pride.

“Noticing all the little details that everyone misses and understanding what they mean. I can tell a professor by the chalk on his collar or a businessman from a con man by the cut of his suit and I can tell that you’re a good student and don’t take any milk in your coffee.”

Ian’s heart beat strongly—he was excited. Everything Mickey said resonated with the already present reservoir of memories Ian had of the panther.

“How?” Ian asked, knowing he was meant to ask.

“Coffee stains on your chemistry book. You study during your breakfast and occasionally spill coffee on your book. The stains are too dark for coffee with any milk in it, and the stains are at different levels of aging, which means you’ve done this more than once— since you’re not fuckin’ clumsy, you must study at breakfast regularly. You’d have to have the book out a lot for it to get spilled on more than once.”

Ian thought his grin might split his face.

“Amazing,” Ian said, half at what he said, half at how he said it.

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and Ian’s mouth was open to say more when a bell rang. Passing period was over.

“Oh, shit,” Ian swore. “I’m supposed to be in chemistry.”

Ian readjusted his bag on his shoulder and began to move away.

“We’ll talk later, okay?” he said, looking over his shoulder to make sure Mickey knew he was serious.

Mickey, who normally had the upper hand in any conversation, had the rug pulled out from under him by Ian’s relaxed words. Nobody had spoken to him like that in human form before, and without the shield of anonymity and mystery that his shifted form provided, his mind was adjusting much slower than he was used to. He nodded in response and Ian smiled again before turning away completely and rushing towards the door. Mickey watched him go. Neither student noticed the raised eyebrows of their fellow Changelings.

. . .

Ian kept his eyes open for Mickey Milkovich for the rest of the day, but he didn’t see hide nor hair of the antisocial Changeling.

At dinner Ian made his apologies to Karen.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Karen,” Ian said over the clatter of cutlery.

She looked up and smiled after a second

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” she said, and she opened her mouth to continue but she was interrupted.

“What did you do to Karen?”

Two dinner trays clacked against the table as Joaquin and Chuckie joined Ian and Karen. Chuckie was still in his uniform but Joaquin had a sweater pulled on over his half unbuttoned school shirt, both sleeves pushed up.

“Yeah, what have you done this time?” Chuckie teased as he sat.

Ian hesitated for a moment but decided it couldn’t hurt to tell his friends. In the short meeting he had with Mickey Milkovich their game had ended. It was time to step out of the shadows of the forest.

“I found out who the panther shift is… and then I may have chased him down the hallway,” Ian giggled, knowing how absolutely ridiculous it must sound.

The reactions were about what one would expect from such a preposterous, unhelpful explanation. Karen just looked completely lost, and Joaquin’s eyebrows were threatening to disappear under his hairline.

“Wait… backup. What’s this about a panther?” Chuckie asked, fork of mashed potatoes hanging in the air.

“Good question!” Joaquin said and stabbed the air with his fork for punctuation. “You never really explained that.”

Karen just watched him with patient but poignant curiosity. Ian just shrugged.

“I met a panther shift in the Forest not long after I arrived here,” Ian explained, pushing some peas across his plate. “And then ran into him many more times after that. We talked and he was strange but…”

Ian shrugged once more, unsure how to put it into words.

“You spoke?” Chuckie asked.

“Well, shift speech,” Ian amended, even if he could speak to the panther far more extensively than any other shifted Changeling.

“So, who was it?” Karen finally spoke up, obviously enticed by the more mysterious aspect of Ian’s story.

Ian snagged a piece of roast pork with his fork and, without the bat of an eyelid, he responded to the question with an answer he saw no problem with.

“Mickey Milkovich.”

Simultaneously, Karen’s lips popped apart in surprise, Chuckie spluttered into his drink, and Joaquin nearly choked on peas. Ian, oblivious as ever, continued to eat his dinner.

. . .

Ian awoke to the sound of his phone buzzing obnoxiously on his bedside table. He absently rolled over and groped in the general direction of the offending noise, smacking at it until it stopped. He then fisted his hands in his blanket and pulled it tightly around him. It was a Saturday and far too early to be disturbed.

Unfortunately, a peaceful morning was not in the cards for Ian, and he never slipped back into restful oblivion. After a moment or so, his phone buzzed again, cut out and then buzzed again, the way it did when he received texts in quick succession. With a grunt, Ian reached for his phone and opened his eyes, still sticky with sleep. He brought the phone up in front of his face to read the messages, but the light was too bright and he had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut and open them again a number of times before he could focus on any of the characters on the screen. The first text was from an unknown number.

**Wanna take a trip to Chicago?**

Even Ian’s sleep addled brain was quick to work out just who the texts must be from. Ian thumbed the down button and the next message popped up on screen.

**If not, come anyway.**

This should have irritated Ian, and if he still wasn’t so pleased about figuring out that the panther was none other than Mickey Milkovich, he may have been annoyed, but right now he just clicked the down button one last time, to the last unopened message.

**Could be rough.**

A sleepy bubble of laughter escaped Ian’s throat and he selected the reply option.

**Why the hell not?**

Ian hit send and rolled onto his back, a drowsy smile still on his face.

He lay like that for a few moments before he worked up the motivation to pull himself from his bed. No sooner had his foot touched the floor than was there a swift rapping of knuckles on his door. Ian’s eyebrows furrowed and he quickly slid on his pajama bottoms and tripped towards the door. He cursed as he stubbed his toe on a hard backed textbook.

When he finally reached the door he twisted the cold knob and wrenched it open. The sight he was met with made him blink blearily another few times.

Mickey Milkovich stood impatiently at his door, rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet. He wasn’t wearing his school uniform, as it was a Saturday. Instead he was wearing  [ a puffy coat ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/4bea8417f6ef3633c3af8c57946b886f/d5db3b65daad68c8-d3/s400x600/c0abb8a5b374679b48a475c56bf52912a31d575b.gifv) that should have made him look silly, but it suited him so well it was as if the coat was made for him. The same plaid scarf was wound around and around his neck, drawing Ian’s attention to his eyes, so familiar from his panther shift.

Ian stared in confusion as Mickey took in Ian’s unprepared state, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Wh… what are you doing here?” Ian mumbled.

Mickey just seemed more impatient.

“Chicago. Bus to catch. If you don’t move your skinny ass, we’ll miss it.”

It was in that moment, standing in his open doorway, shirtless and confused with sleep, with a demanding boy in a plaid scarf determined to drag him to Chicago without warning before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, that Ian realized he may have gotten himself into something that was a bit more than he bargained for.

. . .

Somehow Ian convinced Mickey to wait for him in the dining hall for the five minutes he needed to get ready. Ian dragged himself over to his closet, avoiding the clutter in his room that had gathered since he arrived at the Institute. The dorm was no longer an empty room. It hadn’t taken long for Ian’s books to make their way into stacks in the corners and on the floor, or for his football jersey to slouch over the back of his desk chair. Ian pulled a sweater and a pair of dark jeans out of his closet. He glanced out of his window at the lightening sky before he pulled a green hoodie on as well.

Ian had hoped to grab a cup of coffee and at least a little something to eat, but the second he passed under the doorway on the first floor he was ushered out into the morning mist, without even a spare second to grab a piece of toast.

It wasn’t until Ian was sitting on the bus seat, watching the countryside speed past, that he finally looked over at the young man across from him, who was currently fiddling with a smartphone, and he asked some key questions.

“So… where are we going?” Ian asked.

Irritated eyes glanced up at him.

“I told you, Chicago,” he said shortly.

Ian gave him a tight, unimpressed grin—to be fair Ian had every right to be in a mood, as the boy had dragged him out of bed before eight on a Saturday.

“No, I—I mean why are we going to Chicago?” Ian clarified.

Ian had to admit he probably would have agreed to this trip no matter what its purpose for the sheer fact that Ian loved going into the city. It hadn’t been his intention to go to college there and perhaps never leave, but he’d always thought he’d be back someday. Chicago had always been there, somewhere ahead of him, and there it still was, a beacon in the dark unknown that was the path ahead.

At Ian’s revised question Mickey gave him a small smirk. He carefully set his phone on the arm of the seat.

“There’s this book,” Mickey began, theatrically. “A very old, very rare, expensive book that was written by and about Changelings. A history- it contains one of the most detailed firsthand accounts of the Hunts.”

Even Ian knew about the Changeling Hunts. It was taught in school along with all the other historic human atrocities—the witch burnings, the crusades, the holocaust… the hunts occurred during the Middle Ages. During this time Changelings were often tracked and killed like animals, burned on the basis of harboring demons in their flesh, and some were even captured and kept by nobles as ‘pets’ or in the Royal Menagerie. However, it was said that many Changelings became more than adept at hiding their natures, as well as their children’s, so it was never tied to bloodlines, and for this reason there were even a few remarkable nobles who were said to be Changelings, even at the height of the hunts. Still, it wasn’t a good time to be a Changeling, no matter what class you belonged to.

“Up until a few months ago, this book was on display in Malcolm X’s Library,” Mickey continued. “Then it disappeared without a trace—well mostly. I was able to track the disappearance back to a third year university student, Tracy Williams, whose uncle just so happens to be a collector of rare books. It wasn’t so hard to figure out. The uncle, Canton Williams, lives in Chicago.”

Ian just shook his head. He had been sure things like this didn’t happen in real life. Well, he’d been wrong about plenty of things before.

“So, we’re going to his place to…?” Ian prompted.

“To look for the book,” Mickey said simply.

Mickey had gone back to doing god knows what on his iPhone, but he did glance up questioningly at Ian when he finished, to see his reaction perhaps.

“Alright,” was all Ian said.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm…” Ian gave a nod and then turned back to the window.

There was a smile on his face, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Mickey smile, too.

. . .

Canton Williams lived in a nice apartment in a large building. It wasn’t very old but it certainly wasn’t very modern, and still had a very classic feel to it. Ian followed behind Mickey, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.

“So… what are we going to do? Just knock on his door and hope he lets us in?” Ian asked.

“Don’t be stupid, Gallagher,” Mickey said as he began to scan the name plates next to the intercom. “Williams is at work.”

“So what’re we going to do?”

Mickey didn’t miss a beat.

“Chill, Gallagher. We’re breaking in, obviously.”

Before Ian could begin to come up with an appropriate response, Mickey made a pleased noise and jabbed a button next to a handwritten nameplate.

There was a pause.

“Mickey, what’re you doing!?” Ian said a hushed but urgent whisper.

Mickey shushed him and then turned back to the intercom as a young woman’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello, I—I’m so sorry to bother you,” Mickey said, but his voice was strange. “I’m supposed to be looking after my uncle’s fish—they’re exotic, you see… and I—I seem to have locked the keys in his apartment and if I can’t get in to feed them and check the water they could die and—and he lives right below you, and I was wondering if I could use your balcony to get to the fire escape…?”

Mickey’s voice was utterly sincere—it even shook, and it seemed to raise an octave. It contradicted everything Ian had compiled on Mickey Milkovich, so to him it was obviously an act—the fact that Ian was regularly exposed directly to Mickey’s pride and arrogance, via shift-speech, didn’t hurt his perception of the falsehood, but if he’d been a stranger he would have believed every word. Apparently so did the lady in the apartment above Canton Williams’.

“Oh! Umm… yes, of course,” she said and there was a loud buzz as she opened the door for them.

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much,” Mickey said before opening the door and motioning for Ian to join him.

“Wh-how did you…?” Ian asked as he followed Mickey over the threshold, glancing over at the nameplate as he went.

“She was new,” Mickey explained. “See? Her name plate was handwritten. She wouldn’t know Canton very well, if at all, and certainly not his relatives or his habits.”

All that… from a name plate. Ian just laughed as he bounded up the stairs two at a time, right behind Mickey. When they reached the fifth floor, Mickey paused and turned to Ian.

“Stay here, I’ll go up and get in through the fire escape window—an older building like this it’ll be easy to break in even if it’s locked. Once I’m in the apartment I’ll let you in. It’s 504,” Mickey said, nodding down the hallway.

Then he was gone again, up the stairs and out of sight. Ian realized there was something that Mickey actually enjoyed—it was this, the adventure, the risk, a chase, a game. And you know what? Ian couldn’t blame him because there wasn’t a single thing that confused him about that. It made perfect sense in his mind. This was exciting, invigorating. Ian felt like he could run for days—in human form. He laughed once more and then went to find Canton Williams’ apartment.

Ian didn’t have to wait long in front of the polished mahogany door before he heard a very faint thud and then a few moments later there was a click and the door swung open, revealing an open entryway. Mickey was already walking away by the time Ian entered and he suddenly realized that Mickey was so preoccupied, Ian had been lucky he remembered to let him at all.

The apartment was large and well kept. The décor was classical and expensive, all dark polished wood, plush leather and velvet. Ian immediately felt totally out of place in the fancy, too-organized apartment.

“Don’t touch anything,” Mickey said, and Ian realized he was still wearing the gloves that he’d been wearing outside.

Right, don’t leave fingerprints. Because they were breaking into somebody’s apartment. Ian had to suppress another giggle.

Ian followed Mickey down a short hallway, past a few closed doors, of which Mickey opened a few and ignored others. It looked random but Ian was sure there was a method. When Mickey opened the last door on the left he made an excited exhalation and pushed through.

It was a large living room, there was a couch, a few cushy chairs, a writing desk and everywhere else was books. Shelves covered the walls and on little podiums and desks thick, aged volumes were on display.

Mickey wasted no time and bee-lined straight towards a podium backed up against the far wall.

“Yeah…” he hissed when he got close enough to be sure.

Every curve in his posture, every line in his face, seemed to scream, ‘I was right.’ He beamed back at Ian and motioned for him to come take a look at the heavy tome.

It was obviously old, very, very old. Its pages were yellowed and stained. The brown leather cover was lightly damaged but all things considered it was in remarkable condition. Mickey ever so gently opened the creaking cover to reveal the faded but stunningly detailed title page. “A History of the Shifted Souls” it read, but it was like a piece of art, with flowers blooming within the a, a rearing war horse in the h, a whole flock of birds within the S in ‘Souls’, the impossibly complex knotwork encompassing the whole piece… Even Ian, who would admit he had little interest or ability for the arts, could appreciate the extreme value in the bound pages.

“Wow…” Ian murmured.

They were both leaned over the priceless artifact, heads close.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed.

Ian glanced up at the intense-eyed boy; his pale face was still flickering with elation.

“So what do we do now?” Ian smiled. “Call the police? Get the guy arrested?”

Mickey leaned back and swung the backpack he’d brought off his shoulder.

“Of course not,” Mickey said as he unbuckled his knapsack and pulled out a silk cloth and a thick linen towel. “We just broke into somebody’s house. Besides, you can’t trust the cops.”

“So what then?” Ian asked.

“We’re going to steal it back, of course,” Mickey said with a self satisfied smirk.

He draped the cloth over the book and then picked it up, deftly spinning it in his hands to fold the soft material over it entirely. Ian could only grin and shake his head as Mickey wrapped the plush towel over the whole bundle before slipping it carefully into his bag.

“Of course…. Of course we are,” Ian said. “Did you know that you’re a little bit insane?”

Mickey looked up at him as his nimble fingers buckled the book inside the backpack. He smirked once more.

“You’re also standing in an apartment we both broke into.” Mickey pointed out, and then eyed him carefully.

“That I am,” Ian giggled. “That I am.”

. . .

Mickey took Ian on the scenic route back to the bus Station as it was easy to tell that the new Changeling was infatuated with the city. He didn’t walk like an awestruck child or anything, quite the contrary in fact. Ian seemed to be more confident in his movements here than Mickey had ever seen, shoulders rolled back, steps strong and sure. It was easy to conclude that Ian could be completely comfortable in the sprawling city. After all, he was striding down the streets of Chicago, relaxed as you please, having just aided Mickey in stealing an invaluable work of art from a wealthy man’s home. The average person would be fidgeting, casting furtive glances over their shoulders, no matter how sure they were of their clean escape, but then the evidence all seemed to be pointing to the theory that Ian Gallagher was far less ordinary then his unassuming exterior and, until recently, absolutely boring, normal life, would have suggested. Gallagher was Southside, that much at least was true.

“Jesus,” Ian’s voice cut into Mickey’s lightning musings and he glanced back at his companion whose hand was clutched over their stomach. “I’m starving.”

They’d just robbed a man and Ian wanted to stop for a late lunch. Mickey quirked his brow.

“Huh?” he prompted for more details.

Ian gave him that look that said Mickey was asking an odd question. He was missing something. 

“I haven’t had a chance to have a bite to eat all day. You dragged me out before I could get any breakfast; I’m famished,” Ian said.

Ah. Right. Normal people ate constantly. It hadn’t been safe, when he was a kid, and he’d never developed the habit beyond snackfood. It had been a while since he’d been around anyone else long enough to be hampered by regular consumption of food.

“Oh, right,” Mickey said and changed their course to aim them in the direction of a fried food cart that he knew of nearby.

It wasn’t until Ian had taken the first bite of his pizza roll that he gave Mickey another questioning look.

“You aren’t going to order anything?” he asked.

“Nah,” he reached out and stole one of Ian’s snacks, popping it into his mouth before he could burn his fingers. 

Ian paused in his chewing as he absorbed this new information. Then he swallowed and looked back at his plate.

“So that’s why you’re so skinny,” was all he said before scooping up another piece and sticking it in his mouth.

Mickey just smirked, and a small huff of air that almost could have been a laugh escaped his nostrils.

After their lunch they continued to wander in the general direction of the bus station, in no rush as their bus wasn’t due to depart until 5:30. If Mickey had been on his own he probably would have just switched their bus to an earlier one. Breaking into Williams’ apartment had taken far less time and effort than Mickey had expected, but currently, Mickey’s eagerness to get this book back and bask in the satisfaction was outweighed by his interest in this opportunity to add to his growing inventory of observations on Ian Gallagher.

By five the sun had begun to sink and draw ever closer to the hungry building tops, setting a dim orange glow over the city. Ian had his hands in his pockets but pulled out his mobile to check the time and then looked up at Mickey.

“About time to get back, yeah?” he asked a little regretfully.

Mickey checked his own watch as they passed a pair of poorly dressed kids. They looked vaguely familiar.

“Mm, time to get back to the Institute,” Mickey agreed and approved of Ian’s lingering look up at the buildings surrounding them—as if to say, ‘Farwell, but I’ll be back.’

He steered them down an alley that Mickey knew would drop them out on the street where the station was located. It was there that Mickey first heard the footsteps. Ian didn’t seem to be aware of them yet. It seemed, though, that they would be getting a bit more excitement from Chicago before they had to go.

“Hey! Hey! You two!”

Oh, this was going to be good, Mickey thought sarcastically, as he turned to face the owners of the inarticulate shouts that had been thrown in his and Ian’s direction.

It was the two teenagers they’d passed before entering the alleyway. While their clothes were indeed poorly chosen, they were clean and fairly new. So they were middle class at least, probably High Schoolers—with delusions of street cred. They didn’t realize where Mickey and Ian were originally from, assuming them to be rich morons lost in the city.

“Institute, did you say?” the taller of the two, the one whose voice had stopped them, said with a sneer.

So they’d heard Mickey mention an Institute. That’s what this was going to be about.

“I… I think so,”’ Ian said with mocking uncertainty and then turned to Mickey, whose shoulders were a rigid line. “Was that what I said, Mick?”

“Think you did…” Mickey said without taking his eyes off the aggressive, would-be thugs. 

“Told you they were from one of those filthy mutt schools!” the shorter boy snarled. “They’re mongrels.”

There were many colorful names the closed minded and bigoted had for Changelings, many of which Mickey was sure they would hear before the end of this conversation.

“Oh, good solid conclusion,” Mickey mocked. “And I take it you are idiots.”

“Mickey,” Ian warned, but Mickey ignored him.

“You shut the hell up!” the taller one snapped. “I won’t be talked down to by a son of a beastfucker.”

Fuckin’ rude. That particular slur came from the old belief that Changeling’s were a product of a woman sleeping with an animal. The belief was long discarded but it left some lovely little remnants.

“Well, I wish I didn’t have to talk to the son of morons, but if your intelligence is anything to go by, then I guess we’ll both have to be disappointed,” Ian said scathingly.

Then something changed. He’d been wrong—he’d misjudged something. He’d figured these kids were loud, bigoted, hateful, but not dangerous. The usual. But now there was—

“Ian,” Mickey’s voice cut in a half second after Ian finished his insult.

Finally Ian looked at him. Mickey had somehow realized before him. In Mickey’s eyes he saw what he missed, but it wasn’t fear there that tipped Ian off. It was an acute focus, and an absolute and solid calm settled over his features. His gaze was laser trained on the glinting, steel object in the shorter boy’s hand that had caused the complete shift in the atmosphere. Then, unfortunately, Ian’s observation was cut short as he looked away- Mickey had shouted for a clear reason.

Ian hadn’t stood still during his sarcastic mocking of the Normals, so now he was a few steps in front of Mickey and a few steps closer to the, now armed, teenagers and it was obvious who their target was. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he knew his chances against two attackers, one armed, were bleak, but his odds went up dramatically when a compact figure moved past him at high speed. Mickey.

It was all the distraction they needed. Ian felt another rush flood his system, paired with an odd flutter in his chest that he couldn’t name when Mickey collided with the young man who held a tiny spark of death in his inept fist. Ian was faster than that spark, though, and his hands closed around arms and clothes; a knife arced through the air, clattered to the ground. The unrecognizable tremble was replaced by a swoop of elation and Ian dodged a wide punch towards his gut by the bigger boy.

The sounds of scuffling reached his ears and he figured that Mickey was faring well against his opponent, and so was Ian, until he got cocky and risked another look to see how Mickey was handling himself. He wanted to see if that sure, set clarity was still present. And it was, as was so much more. There was now a fierce euphoric current rushing just under the new Changeling’s skin.

Half a smile finally reached Ian’s face before he paid for his own lack of focus: one of his attackers rushed past him to Mickey, tripping him. Another foot had woven between his two and there were harsh hands in his jacket and then he was approaching the ground very quickly. He threw out his hands and his left hit the pavement, hard, sending shooting streams of pain up through his arm.

“Motherfucker!!” Mickey gasped involuntarily.

Mickey didn’t miss the way Ian’s head snapped around, eyes wide, when he’d cried out. Mickey returned his focus to the remaining attackers as he cradled his arm to his chest. There was a smile on the kid’s mean face. So he was going to gloat, was he? Ian smirked and knew that Mickey wasn’t wasting any more time.

In the seconds the normal boy wasted gloating, there was the solid smack of a fist against flesh and then there was the sound of someone falling to the ground. Before the standing boy could react, a hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around roughly, so he was already off balance when knuckles collided explosively with his cheek. Another body fell to the ground and Ian looked up at Mickey Milkvoich who was breathing heavily above him, left arm held carefully against his body.

“All right?” Ian huffed in the short pause in the chaos.

Mickey was about to respond when a bottle smashed a few meters away from them, sending broken glass flying.

“Hey! You punks better get out of here!” a slurring voice shouted from an open window. “I’ll call the police!”

Ian and Mickey’s attackers were stirring and jarred into action by the crash. Mickey saw the shorter one’s head snap up towards the sound and swear. So that one at least had priorities. By the time the second bottle hit the ground, everyone was scrambling. Ian grabbed Mickey’s good hand, forcing him to pull Ian to his feet. There was a moment of intensity, and time slowed as the two opposing groups passed by each other, heading in opposite directions.

“Beastfuckers,” the taller one spat, and Mickey snarled but kept moving.

Ian dutifully followed Mickey down the alleyway. They stopped running as soon as they got to the main road and then they leaned up against the building, gasping for breath. Mickey felt his heart thudding against his ribs and the pain in his wrist had been reduced to an almost pleasant sort of ache by the adrenaline coursing through his body. His bag was still safely hanging from his shoulders.

Mickey glanced sideways towards his companion, who was in the same state. His hair was tousled, sticking up on one side, and his face was flushed. His chest rose and fell vigorously. His eyes were clear and bright. He looked absolutely and completely alive.

Ian noticed Mickey’s scrutiny and looked over. There was a second where they held each other’s gazes and then, like waiting for the last grains of sand falling in an hourglass, they burst out laughing. Ian leaned forward, unable to catch his breath but smiling wide. Mickey let his head fall back against the bricks and felt himself laugh wholeheartedly for the first time in as long as he could remember, and the sun continued to sink into the arms of Chicago.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An enemy... and more,

“It’s not like it’s fucking broken, Gallagher. It’s just a sprain,” Mickey complained as Ian made yet another attempt to force Mickey to let him look at his wrist.

“Look, even if it’s just sprained it still needs to be looked at and taken care of,” Ian said. “We need to stop and get a bandage and ice. If you ignore shit like this you won’t be able to shift for days. You’ll have to take shift suppressors and I’ve heard they’re really unpleasant.”

Even as a new Changeling, Ian was aware of how injuries affected Changelings. Their need to shift often was troublesome when it came to serious injuries. Tissue damage and minor wounds were usually unaffected by a shift and the same treatment could be applied in either form. However more serious injuries, broken bones and surgeries could be complicated by shifting between forms. In the past, Changelings would have to remain in their shifted form until the injuries were healed, sometimes for weeks or months. In the present day, however, modern medicine had overcome this problem and drugs that suppressed the shift urge could be taken after surgeries or if a Changeling experienced a severe bone break. They had side effects, though, and no Changeling enjoyed spending so much time stuck in human form.

Not for the first time, Ian realized that Mickey was frustratingly stubborn, but at Ian’s reminder of the possible consequences of not treating a sprain he slowed and glanced back, irritated.

“We’ll miss the bus,” Mickey said.

“No, we won’t,” Ian said, determined. “It won’t take a minute.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed skeptically.

“Fine,” he finally said.

Even though he’d agreed and let Ian run into a CVS near the station to buy first aid supplies, he wouldn’t let Ian even look at his wrist until they were both seated side-by-side on the bus. He tried to make Mickey let him bind it but he kept dodging Ian’s hands. It was a pitiful slapping match, not the least of which because Mickey was hurt, and Ian didn’t want to make it worse, so he gave in, and then had to endure a painful few moments of watching Mickey struggle with an ace bandage on his own before he snapped with a heavy sigh.

“Give it here,” Ian said as he broke the seal in the two instant ice packs he’d procured. “Put your wrist between these for a few minutes while I sort out the mess you’ve made. And for the love of Christ stop moving it.”

Mickey finally responded to the commanding tone with light surprise.

“You’re into this shit, aren’t you,” Mickey asked as he handed over the lightly tacky, tangled mass that was once a neatly rolled bandage.

He took the ice packs and Mickey set one on his thigh, laid his wrist across it and pressed the other over it, effectively encasing it in the soothing cold.

“Yeah, I am. Thinking about EMT school,” Ian said, thinking back to all the injuries he and his siblings had endured, growing up with health insurance or caring parents.

Ian began to untangle the wrappings and ignored Mickey’s new wave of scrutiny.

“Most people forget that shit,” Mickey said.

Ian had gotten most of the kinks out of the bandage and glanced up at the boy who was sitting in the seat across from him.

“Well, I never did. I like it. I’m good at it,” Ian said, somehow not coming off arrogantly. “My ROTC leader used to call me Dr. Gallagher, always patching them up. Here, let me see your wrist…”

Ian smiled at the memories as he reached out to take Mickey’s wrist. The Changeling flinched away in surprise but when Ian stayed steady, he relented, offering his wrist forward hesitantly. It was now chilled, and Ian held it with a surprisingly warm and gentle grip for hands that had very recently knocked the daylights out of a couple of guys. Shadows of bruises already could be seen blooming on his knuckles.

“Dr. Gallagher…” Mickey repeated as practiced hands began to firmly but delicately wrap the bandage around his inflamed wrist, unrolling the strip as he went.

“Mhmm,” Ian murmured as he wrapped. “Maybe it’ll be more than just a nickname someday.”

Ian had faded out of the present, floating through both the past and future, and with his eyes focused on his task he didn’t see the contemplating gaze looking over him. There was a pause and then Mickey turned and watched the building pass out the bus’s window. Ian just smiled and continued to bind Mickey’s sprained wrist.

. . .

The next day a very old book was found where it used to sit in the Malcolm X Institute library. With it, there was a note from one Canton Williams apologizing for being a conniving prick and taking such a fancy-ass book—in those exact words. When the gossip got back to Ian he had nearly spit his coffee out onto the table. Mickey had more of a sense of humour than Ian gave him credit for.

From that day forward, Mickey was no longer a lone shadow on campus. Now he was frequently accompanied by someone else: Ian Gallagher. Ian was often awoken by random texts or knocks on his door, and though it was often with complaints and scowls, he somehow always found himself complying to the strange Changeling’s requests.

This was expertly highlighted one night a few days after the Heist, as he secretly called it in his mind, while Ian was hunched over his chemistry book. He was about to give up and go to bed as the bright desk lamp was starting to exhaust his eyes, when he heard the buzz of a text. He looked away from a passage on precipitation reactions, and unlocked his phone. The words on the screen made him sigh.

**Come to 631A**

He  _ should  _ have gone to bed; he had football practice tomorrow, but even as he was thinking this he found himself rising from his chair and readjusting his tee-shirt.

It didn’t take long to find 631A, as it was on his floor, but as Ian passed the second to last door on the right, 629A, Chuckie’s room, he began to smile. A few pieces of a puzzle fell into place. A comment from his first day at the Institute floated back to him.

_ Hope you have better luck with your next door neighbors than I do. _

It was the first thing Chuckie ever said to him. He’d been complaining about a very specific next door neighbor.

_ Plays that electric guitar at all hours of the night, and where do those explosions keep coming from…? _

By the time his knuckles rapped on the door of 631A, Ian’s suspicions had progressed to near certainty.

“Come on in,” a voice spoke from within.

Ian turned the knob and opened the door. The room within obviously belonged to his friend. It was larger than any of the rooms Ian had seen in the dorms so far. It was unsurprising, though. Ian knew that students were allowed to switch rooms between the school years, so the older and longest Changed students often occupied the best rooms. Since Mickey had been at the Institute since the age of five, it stood to reason he would have obtained such a large space. He’d also probably been in this room a while, as the space had been overrun by the Changeling.

There was a desk and a closet, just like Ian’s, and while the small area around the wardrobe was less filled, it was the only area that could in any way shape or form be called neat or clean. There were books strewn everywhere, some open, some stacked in apparently random piles. There were a large number of test tubes and petri dishes, all smelling vaguely burnt. The desk beneath had seen better days. It was burned, scratched, and blackened by what appeared to be chemical burns. There was a suspiciously large pocket knife stabbed through a letter into the pockmarked wood beside a stack of files, and there was a mini fridge under the desk that Ian rather strongly suspected didn’t contain anything remotely edible.

The walls weren’t spared from the clutter either. One wall was covered in drawings, articles, and string. One had various foliage pinned to it with accompanying post-it notes documenting something Ian couldn’t decipher. Above the desk was a poster of a small bird pinned up by its wings, and Ian would have thought this the most morbid thing in the room if not for what appeared to be a human skull on the bedside table.

The room’s occupant currently lay stretched out on a deep navy blue blanket, head propped up on a stained, off-white pillow. One hand lay on his chest and the other, still wrapped to protect his sprained wrist, lay across his stomach. Ian would have thought him asleep if he hadn’t just been called in by him.

The bed wasn’t spared the mess. There were a few magazines, another, more substantial knife, and most notably a beautiful, gleaming white electric guitar..

“You’re the neighbor that drives poor Chuckie up the wall, aren’t you?” Ian said, barely holding back laughter.

“Playing the guitar helps me think,” was all Mickey said, utterly unapologetic.

Ian just shook his head and closed the door behind him.

“So, why’d you call me over?” Ian asked. “It’s late.”

“Pass me those papers from the top of the stack on the desk,” Mickey said, one hand reaching out to receive them.

Something throbbed dangerously in Ian’s tired mind as he processed the request.

“You… called me over… to hand you papers—that were on your desk,” Ian repeated it back slowly, making sure he wasn’t confused.

Mickey opened one blue eye at Ian’s obviously irritated tone.

“I think I figured out how to break into Jackson’s liquor cabinet, but I need those papers to be sure,” Mickey defended.

Ian was still tied up in the fact that he’d come all the way down the hall for this.

“The papers that’re on your desk… that you called me down to get at a quarter to one to fetch for you, from your desk that’s not ten feet from your bed, where you are currently,” Ian clarified once more.

Now both of Mickey’s frustrated eyes were watching Ian.

“Yeah…” he said, obviously not seeing a problem. “And if we break into the liquor cabinet, we probably have access to her medicine chest too. Sure bet she’s on some good meds we can snatch.”

Ian closed his eyes and tried to formulate a sentence that didn’t consist primarily of words his mother wouldn’t smack him for saying.

“I—you—Why do you wanna get drunk?” was the question that finally made it out of his mouth.

Now, Ian was berating himself. That was hardly discouraging this sort of behavior, but Ian’s curiosity always got the best of him.

“Cause I’m feeling some type of way, and if we add some alcohol, I won’t be. Easy solution- I could be sure if you would just hand me those papers.”

This tone of voice would have had you believe that Ian was the one who was being unreasonable. He opened his mouth to spit an acidic response at the entitled boy but his jaw snapped shut and he stalked over to the desk and picked up the top file, labeled  _ Hall Blueprints _ , and then resisted the urge to throw them at Mickey. When they made it to his hands, he flipped it open and scanned for a few seconds before a satisfied smirk curved his pink lips and he quirked up one eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m good…” he murmured.

He closed the file and grabbed his phone, thumbs tapping madly on the touch screen, eyes bright and focused. Ian realized he was no longer necessary and sighed tiredly, turning towards the door. He made it to close his hand around the cool doorknob before a voice stopped him.

“Don’t you want to hear how I figured it out?”

Ian couldn’t help the small smile that tugged the corners of his lips up at the tone in the clever Changeling’s voice, confusion mixed with a dash of disappointment. Ian let go of the doorknob and resigned himself to getting very little sleep that night.

. . .

The new shift in the social expectations of the Malcolm X Institute didn't go unnoticed. Surprised double takes often followed the pair through the corridors or past the table where they sat for breakfast—Ian eating and Mickey sipping a cup of coffee. Usually the looks were merely curious or bewildered but sometimes they were less than friendly.

“You should really stay away from Mickey Milkovich,” a voce stopped Ian one evening as he rose from a table of friends and acquaintances when Mickey entered the dining hall.

The voice belonged to Bonnie Tyler, a fellow member of the Campus Guard with Joaquin. Trevor also joined them today. Ian didn’t particularly like either of them, but they were friends of Joaquin’s so he always remained cordial.

“Why do you say that?” Ian said, pleased when his voice came out clear of barbs.

“He’s a freak,” Bonnie said, as if it was obvious. “Everybody knows that.”

“There’s just something off about him,” Trevor added before Ian could respond. “There’s something wrong with him, with his whole family.”

An image of deep, shiny black scars flashed through Ian’s mind and a surge of anger welled up in his gut.

“He’ll probably stab you in your sleep,” Bonnie said.

“Psychos don’t have friends,” Trevor added.

With that Ian decided they weren’t even worth his anger. The rest of Ian’s friends had become aware of the exchange and shifted awkwardly. Joaquin had frozen with a fork full of mashed potatoes half way to his open mouth.

“You know what? I’ll take my chances,” was all Ian said before turning and striding purposefully across the hall to meet up with Mickey.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey asked, noticing Ian’s tension when he came close.

At that his anger dissipated and he didn’t have to try hard to smile down at the dark haired student.

“It’s nothing,” Ian said.

. . .

Ian often went into the woods with Mickey, their ease of communication making him an ideal companion; however, every once in a while Ian enjoyed going into the woods with Joaquin or even all alone, just so he could run free, without having to stop for the feline’s lesser endurance.

Normally, Ian would run at a quick but easy lope until the restlessness drained out of him, but this night the itch for speed crawled all over his fur. The evening was unusually clear and Ian sprinted through the trees, paws throwing up clots of dirt and grass as his nails dug for purchase. Only when his overly large lungs began to burn and his swollen tongue lolled out of his mouth to try and cool his overheated blood did he slow and let his heartbeat stop pounding so hard against his ribs.

Ian sniffed the night air to make sure he was heading back in the general direction of the school, as he’d run further than he normally did and wasn’t particularly familiar with this part of Malcolm X Forest. It was through this nasal survey that Ian first became aware that he wasn’t alone under the trees.

Ian froze as the underbrush rustled ahead of him. Just in sight in the gloom, a lithe form slithered into view and then propped itself up on hind legs ahead of him. It was glossy and sleek, with huge lighter dapples in its coat. Sharp, slanted eyes glinted in the moonlight—a jaguar.

<Calm.  **Beneath your paws is a viper. It would be in your best interest if you would elect not to move, as one drop of his venom will kill you dead.** Amusement.>

It was the voice of a woman, slow and sultry, and absolutely clear. That was the practiced shift-speech of a nearly mature Changeling. Then Ian processed the meaning of the words. He was being threatened—and there was something in the way the jaguar said the words so smoothly, almost pleasant, as if she were offering him a cup of coffee, that made Ian more than sure she wasn’t lying.

She wasn’t going to force Ian to just take her word for it, however. The leaves below Ian rustled and he didn’t dare look down when he felt a smooth strip of body slither up his hind leg and over his back until it coiled around his neck like a second marker. He didn’t move but it didn’t stop him from trying to question his captor.

<Irate. Confusion. >

If his question got through it was for the most part ignored. The jaguar dropped onto all fours.

< **Follow me.** >

Left with no other viable options, Ian padded after the slinking creature as she turned and led him into the forest. There was just silence for a good while as they passed under the hovering moon. Unable to stay quiet in the tense situation, Ian attempted to question the unfamiliar Changeling again.

<Smooth. Sleek.  **Name?** Shiny.>

The mink gave him a strange look.

< **My name?** >

She interpreted the question correctly.

<Amusement… **Mandy.** >

She said it with an odd undertone, almost like she was telling a joke, and with an easy clarity, Ian realized she expected him to recognize the name- but Ian didn’t. He didn’t bother trying to get her to give him any more information.

They reached the edge of a small but secluded clearing surrounded by brambles. There was a clear opening between the trees and the jaguar, who called herself Mandy, veered off to the side of it and perched on a stump where she proceeded to begin grooming herself. When Ian paused she looked up at him, waiting. When he still didn’t move he heard her voice in his mind.

Ian felt small under her dismissive attitude. As he strode into the clearing he felt the viper slip from his neck and he relaxed, releasing some tension he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto.

Ian slowed to a stop when they reached the center of the clearing, absolutely clueless as to what to expect now. This didn't fall into the category of things Ian was conditioned to handle on your average night. The jaguar stopped and sat a few meters away, head held high and calculating.

< **Sit.** >

A cool, commanding tone that Ian instinctively rebelled against met his mind. He remained standing.

< **Ok then,** > the voice continued, seeming to accept that Ian had no intention of sitting. < **I chose to meet with you cause you’ve been spending a lot of time with Mickey Milkovich.** >

Mickey? Ian thought. This was about Mickey? Of course it was. This sort of insanity could only concern him. Obviously aware that Ian didn’t possess the skill to respond verbally, the jaguar continued.

< **Mickey isn’t like most people you’ll meet: I worry about him.** >

He certainly wasn’t, but why did this have anything to do with this clear-spoken Changeling?

<Irritation. Arrogance.  **Who?** Feline. Confusion.>

Who are you? Ian had tried to ask.

< **If you ask Mickey, he’d tell you that I'm his enemy. Truthfully, I'm just concerned for him.** >

Enemy? Really? Normal kids didn’t have enemies like this. What had Ian gotten himself into this time?

< **Because of this, and your recent… closeness, with Mickey Milkovich, I’d like it if you could… report to me. Keep me updated on him; I can pay you for the trouble.** >

Was this woman, Changeling, bribing him to spy on Mickey? A rebellious fury flashed through Ian’s veins and he felt his hackles rise aggressively.

<Shock! Indignation! Defiance!>

The jaguar’s eyes widened slightly at the strength of Ian’s response. While Ian was observing this, he felt the lightest, familiar flutter against his mind.

< **Don’t think I don’t understand why you’re following Mickey Milkovich. I can read you like a book, Gallagher. > ** she said, eyes narrowing and head tilting just a fraction to the side.  **< You always wanted to be a soldier, right? It’s there in your eyes. You love the danger, Ian Gallagher?** >

As interesting or concerning the Changeling’s assessment of him was, now Ian was distracted. There was another crackle, sparking faintly against his consciousness.

< **Mickey!** >

He tried to call quietly, hide it from the jaguar, but the creature could at least tell he’d called out.

< **Your ability to shift-speak is limited at best. Nobody’s close enough to hear you. Now back to point, you may love the danger, the adventure, but there are things you don’t know about Mickey. There are things you should know. They shape him. Things that he can’t even accept in himself…** >

Even as Ian became much more acutely aware of the strange Changeling’s words, a fizzle of pointed thought brushed against him. Despite the jaguar’s assurance, someone had heard him. Nevertheless, Ian couldn’t help but pay mind to the turn the conversation had taken.

< **There are dark parts of Mickey, Ian. You may be able to handle the danger, the rush, but can you handle Mickey himself? If you can’t then you--** >

The electricity was bouncing so forcefully against his brain now that Ian could barely focus. His gaze had wandered to the ground.

< **The scars, Ian, do you know—** >

Ian’s ears pricked forward in attention but the Changeling never got a chance to finish as a splitting yowl cut the night.

< **Mandy!!!** >

The jaguar’s head snapped around in the direction of the howl, out into the black forest, eyes wide. There wasn’t a two second pause before a panther flew like an arrow over the brambles and into the clearing. A heavy body touched down to the ground with a soft thud. The second he landed, he was hissing and spitting madly. Ian had never seen him react to anything so strongly before—let the beast in him free. All of his fur rose up, making him look twice as large as he truly was, his tail lashed and his bared fangs glinted in the moonlight.

< **Mickey! What the hell is going on?** > Ian asked quickly.

< **Mickey!?** > the jaguar said in surprise.

Mickey glanced back at Ian, giving him a once over.

< **Mickey, they have this viper— it could be here now. Be careful!** >

The familiar voice resonated in his mind.

< **It’s fine, Ian. Don’t fuckin’ worry** .>

The shocked jaguar was looking from Mickey to Ian and back again. Golden eyes were wide and analyzing.

< **How’d you find us, asshole? I made sure it was too far for you to track and beyond your little friend’s shift-speaking abilities. How could you…** >

Mickey was stiff and frozen, eyes fierce and glaring at the jaguar. Ian swiveled his furry head back towards his friend.

< **Mickey, Tell me what the hell—** >

< **Shut up!** >

The voice in his mind was accompanied by an involuntary glance in his direction. Ian head jerked back in surprise. Did Mickey seriously just tell him to shut up? After all he’d gotten him into! Ian was preparing a biting response when he noticed the jaguar’s jaw had dropped slightly.

< **Ohhh…** >

The smooth voice whispered in his mind. Mickey’s head whipped back in the direction of the Changeling he’d called Mandy. Mickey looked like an elastic band stretched to just before its snapping point—tight as a wire.

< **So that’s how you found him. You can hear him. You two have an open bond…** >

Mickey just snarled in response and Ian was absolutely lost. Mandy only stood and continued.

< **Mickey, if this is true, don’t you see how important this could be? Don’t you know what that means? You can’t just erase it, Mickey. It—** >

A snarling, hissing yowl cut the jaguar off. Mickey’s tail lashed madly and Ian didn’t miss the way his claws extended into the earth.

< **It’s none of your business, bitch! Leave now!** >

The jaguar’s tail lashed once, giving away his agitation.

< **Mickey, stop being such a pussy. You—** >

Then Mickey roared. Ian both heard and felt it in his bones. Then the great beast went utterly still and Ian swore he could feel ice crystallizing on the borders of his consciousness.

< **Now, Mandy** > the voice commanded.

Mandy’s eyes narrowed and there was tense silence for a moment.

< **Fine, dick-breath…** >

The cool voice finally conceded, and then without another word she turned and slid back into the shadows. The insults felt weirdly familiar to Ian, reminding him of home, somehow.

There was absolutely no movement for a long while and Ian watched Mickey watch the retreating Changeling disappear into the darkness. Finally Ian padded over to stand beside his frozen friend. He still hadn’t moved but some of his muscles were beginning to relax and Ian could feel his mind thawing.

< **She said she was your enemy…** >

Ian said this quietly with some skepticism and Mickey’s whiskers twitched in amusement and a little more tension drained out of them both. Mickey huffed, a sound Ian recognized as a scoff, and turned in the opposite direction from where the jaguar had stalked off, passing Ian in the process. Ian turned to follow.

< **She would say that…** > Mickey said grumpily as they passed the brambles.

< **Well then, who is she actually?** >

Without so much as a pause for dramatic effect, Mickey stated quite clearly:

< **She’s my sister.** >

In shock, Ian tripped over a fallen branch and narrowly avoided plowing his muzzle into the ground.

< **She’s your what!?** > Ian nearly shouted.

He had to give them some credit, though. The Milkovich siblings certainly knew how to make an impression. No wonder the snarky banter had felt familiar- that was just how all Southside siblings interacted. He’d certainly called Lip worse things in his day, and been called just as bad.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More secrets are revealed, but damnit, why does Mickey Milkovich have so many layers? Like a fuckin' onion, man.

In the aftermath of meeting Mandy Milkovich, Ian had tried to question Mickey about what had happened that night in the forest—about the words that had caught his attention, the parts that had slightly concerned even the level-headed Ian, but all Mickey would say was that his sister was just ridiculously nosey- it made her job in the FBI easier. Ian had been so distracted by getting Mickey to explain that little comment that the younger Milkovich effectively evaded Ian's real questions for another day.

When it got right down to it, Ian didn't try as hard as he could, or probably should, have, considering the apparent gravity of Mandy's 'warnings'. There were any number of reasons that could effectively explain this lapse in effort but Ian had a sneaking suspicion that it was truthfully due to the simple fact that Ian liked and trusted Mickey and instinctively fostered less than pleasant feelings towards his older sister—a fact that Mickey himself delighted in. Whatever it was, the events and the questions raised that night quickly fell into the list of things that were not to be discussed. Ian would have to wait for answers.

Even with this hiccup, life began to pass more quickly at the Malcolm X Institute. Ian no longer followed everything anyone told him with asking a clarifying question that gave away his inexperience in the world of Changelings. He no longer got lost while navigating the corridors of Malcolm X Hall. A few of his socks had disappeared under his bed and a pen or five had slipped behind his desk. As much as any place had ever been, the Malcolm X Institute became home.

People also stopped turning their heads when Mickey entered a room less than alone. Nobody was surprised to see Ian Gallagher at Mickey's side, even more, it seemed to have become expected. Because of this, Ian was probably the only one truly surprised when Mickey showed up at one of his football games for the first time.

He'd been standing to look over the opposing team’s warmup, aware of his own teammates' attention on him. This was his play, his call, and it was amazing, but then Ian's voice had cut out half way through shouting the direction for a play when he saw a familiar, dark haired shape on the sidelines wearing that  [ too-long army coat ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/2c2874dfafe8becac5f1a2a5ec37ab49/b3cd3a7d57eea752-72/s1280x1920/520e4b23efdd0c45fa254eb5cbedc424fe9bea96.gifv) that Mickey loved to wear on the weekends. His plaid scarf was wound around and around his neck. They were too far away to be sure, but Ian swore he made eye contact as Mickey stared at him levelly.

"Gallagher!" Ian heard Caleb shout to get his attention.

Ian's attention whipped back to his teammates and their blue shirted opponents from the Hirsch Institute. While Ian didn't really have any focus to spare on his friend, he couldn't help but cast a few sidelong glances towards the edge of the field between plays.

After that day it was not an uncommon sight to see Mickey in the spectators’ seats at football games. He most definitely didn't come to all of them, and he often seemed to get bored in the middle and leave, but still, Ian developed a habit of scanning the stands for a plaid scarf before each match.

When Ian asked why he came to games Mickey simply stated that he found the combination of physical trials and strategy coming together to form a pseudo-war experience stimulating.

"Basically… you like football?" Ian had asked, having become adept at translating Mickey-speak into what he called normal-people-speak.

"I like watching dudes pummel the crap out of each other, so yeah, I like football," Mickey confirmed, doling out one of his rare true smiles that had become much more common in the past months. Ian could only laugh in response at the simple admission.

. . .

The first word of the Wandering of Linda Kaur reached Mickey in the stands of the Malcolm X Institute's football field, as he sat in the middle of a crowd to watch one of Ian's football games. Surprisingly enough, Mickey hadn't lied to Ian when he said he liked football. He enjoyed the contest of strength between the players, contrasted with their agility. What he hadn't told Ian was that there was another reason he came to the games. It provided Mickey with consistent access to studying Ian's unique responses to pressure—that strange steely calm that was hidden under the soft, tee-shirt covered exterior.

Plus, if Mickey got bored of the game he could just observe the crowd and figure out which individuals to pickpocket after the game. It was a good exercise.

Currently, Mickey sat on a cold metal bench about halfway up the stands debating whether or not to stay through the second half of the game. It was early but still unusually chilly for a late spring morning. The mist clung to the field, so the players on the opposite side were lightly shrouded. Mickey could still clearly pick out Ian where he crouched, ready in his black and silver jersey. He couldn't see his eyes from here but Mickey knew the way they'd be shining clear and fierce. Mickey knew his shoulder was bothering him from where he succumbed to a hard tackle near the beginning of the game but he was hiding the weakness well. It was pretty hot, the stoicism. Malcolm X Institute was so far ahead of their opponents that there was little or no chance of them making a comeback.

There were two girls sitting close together for warmth on the bench directly in front of him. He'd easily identified them as Talia Kopera and Sophia Kaur when he'd sat down, two college students. He'd tuned them out a while ago, but his mind had kinda been monitoring without his direction and alerted him when the conversation took a more interesting turn.

"I wonder how Kash’s doing," Talia said to her friend, curly brown hair bobbing as she turned her head.

Her friend, who wore a red head scarf, turned towards her with a look of confusion on her face.

"What?" Sophia asked. "What happened to Kash?"

Talia raised her eyebrows in surprise before ducking her head and speaking low. Mickey was lucky he was right behind them or he may have missed the next words. He watched Ian push his full body weight into a tackle but his true focus was to the conversation passing between the girls in front of him.

"Didn't you hear?" she whispered. "Linda Kaur got the fever a few days back and hasn't been seen since yesterday. Kash was seeing her."

Mickey took half a second to scroll through his memory to pick out everything he knew about the name Linda Kaur. She was a college student as well. She was fairly popular, average intelligence, and had a snow leopard shift if he remembered correctly.

Then Mickey moved on to the topic of the statement. There had been a wandering? 'The Fever' only ever meant that fever, the Wander Fever. It wasn't uncommon. Usually happened once or twice a year. Mickey thought it was pointless to discuss the subject. When wanderers disappeared there was nothing to be done. It was just a fact of Changeling life, and it was supposed to be a good way to go. Life went on.

Mickey tuned them out again and went back to watching the field. He stayed for another two plays before slipping out of the stands and making his exit.

. . .

Mickey didn't give the wandering a second thought until forty-eight hours later when he was walking through the corridors of Malcolm X Hall towards the Grand Entryway, Ian following behind him.

"You know, just because you brought back an invaluable book from the dark ages doesn't mean you have the right to destroy any other book from the library," Ian's voice admonished from behind him.

Mickey rolled his eyes.

"I'm not destroying them, Ian. Just checking the effects of sulphuric acid on the paper used by different printing companies," Mickey corrected him.

Ian had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his uniform trousers, pushing back his jacket. Mickey heard his schoolmate giggle.

"That sounds suspiciously like it might destroy them," Ian pointed out.

"Might. Good cause though." Mickey defended as they turned into the Grand Entry, passing the start of the Wanderer's Wall.

All the Institutes had a wall like this one. It was a wall meant to remember and honor the 'truest' of Changelings—those who wandered. After the school was sure of the wandering, a picture of the student in human and shifted form, as well as a plaque, was put up in their honor, and the Institute hung their respective markers beneath it to symbolize their shedding of restraints and taking of freedom. It was a fuckin’ stupid tradition in Mickey's opinion. He didn't see the point.

"Yeah, and you’re destroying books in the name of science," Ian's quip bringing his focus back to the present.

Mickey shot a glare over his shoulder.

"Well, turn me in then," Mickey bated.

Ian didn't take it and just laughed, holding his hands up.

"It’s got nothing to do with me," Ian said. "If the school kicks you out, it'll be nobody's fault but your own. Don't expect me to cover for you."

It was strange, though. Despite Ian's words, Mickey didn't hold a single doubt that if it came to such a situation, his companion would defend him without hesitation. He wondered when that had happened. When had he come to depend on another human being? He certainly hadn't meant to do that. Such things made Mickey vulnerable, but somehow, in a relatively short amount of time, Ian Gallagher had simply sidestepped the defenses Mickey had spent his whole life creating, seemingly without a single pointed effort to do so. Yet here Mickey was with an associate, someone who listened to his words and had heard his mind. He found himself desiring the Changeling's company, craving his praise and effortlessly tolerating his stupidity—that might sound like an insult to an outsider but considering Mickey's less than savory views on the rest of the population, it was a ringing endorsement. However, it was troubling. He should probably do something about it.

Mandy's intervention had been a reality check for Mickey. That night he lay pensively in bed and convinced himself that he should set a few boundaries for himself when it came to Ian Gallagher. It was only a matter of time until he slipped in a way he couldn't cover and he couldn't take back. But the next day Ian had made him coffee and his pride told him he could handle it. He would be absolutely fine. Plus, Mickey had found that his ideas came more quickly and clearly when he spoke them out loud, to another person. Mickey had come to the solid conclusion that the cost benefit balance was sound.

The two High Schoolers passed Mr. Thatcher as he added a new member to the Wanderer's Wall. Mickey was about to continue his banter with Ian when something flashed like a neon sign in his mind, as things that others missed so often did. It was like a beacon. Something was off. What was it?

"Oh, shit!" Mickey said as it hit him like a mallet on a gong.

Ian dodged as Mickey spun in place.

"Jesus! Watch it, Mickey," Ian chastised. "what's it?"

Mickey merely ignored him and wove around him to approach Mr. Thatcher.

"This is Linda Kaur's memorial, right?" Mickey asked immediately, to draw the man's attention.

He recognized the smiling blonde as well as her exotic shift before Mr. Thatcher could have answered but let him do so anyway.

"Well, yes, why?" he asked.

Ian had followed him over and now watched with a confused set to his mouth. Why did everyone miss everything?

"Is that  _ her  _ marker?" Mickey asked, ignoring Mr. Thatcher's question.

Mickey nodded towards the hook he'd just hung a blue leather collar on. Mr. Thatcher's brow furrowed.

"Um… yes," he said.

Mickey looked it over once more to be sure before responding. Stupid!

"No, it's not. That marker is brand new. It's never been worn before," Mickey spat.

Mr. Thatcher looked taken aback and glanced at the marker and then back at Mickey.

"Oh, well, yes. It's not the same one she had before. We couldn't find her marker with her things," he explained.

That was wrong, off. When wanderers go to make their final shift they usually brought their markers to the changing booth out of habit. It was said that they themselves didn’t even realize they would never shift back again until their final moments. So usually their markers were left with their shed clothing. If they were like Mickey and neglected to wear any marker at all, it was recovered from their dorms and then hung.

"You didn't find it in her dorm?" Mickey asked, as he didn't know if Linda Kaur had followed the rules or not.

Mr. Thatcher just looked more confused, as did Ian. Mickey's impatience grew.

"Umm… no. They looked all through her room when they cleared it and it wasn't anywhere. We think she must have wandered with it. Doesn't really matter now, though, does it? She's free," Mr. Thatcher said solemnly, repeating a sentiment commonly voiced by older Changelings—freedom.

Mickey thought it was all just a pathetic defense mechanism used to deal with the loss. It was idealised until it became a positive thing, succumbing to the beast inside, or whatever it was that caused a Changeling to wander.

Having finished his duties and paying his respects, Mr. Thatcher excused himself, leaving Mickey staring intensely at the memorial of Linda Kaur. After a moment of silence Ian finally spoke up.

"Mickey, what's wrong?" he asked, taking a step closer.

Mickey's gaze didn't waver.

"There's something wrong about this," he said. "Wanderer's never shift with their markers."

Ian shrugged.

"Maybe she just didn't wear one, like you, and lost it or something," Ian supplied, trying—and failing—to be helpful.

"No… that's not it," Mickey said, breathing certainty. "There's something else. I don't know what it is yet but I'm gonna find out."

Ian's eyebrows rose.

"What do you mean?"

Finally, Mickey's lips curved into a slow smile as he looked into the frozen eyes of Linda Kaur, excitement prickling in his veins.

"Gallagher, this’s far more interesting than a simple wandering."

. . .

Unfortunately, not a single member of the faculty had agreed with Mickey's assessment of the situation. And after a week of watching Mickey shout at people, from resident directors to professors to councilors, and then awkwardly apologizing for Mickey's constant disrespect, which they took surprisingly well due to their experience with the Changeling, Ian was exhausted and Mickey was buried deep in an absolute sulk-fest. None of the faculty thought the discrepancy was anything to be concerned about and instructed Mickey to let it go—something he resisted vehemently.

The semester was nearing an end and Ian had already turned in most of his coursework. Because of this, Ian was feeling particularly relaxed on a Friday evening as he read over a random medical text he'd found shoved into a corner of Mickey's room. For his part, Mickey glowered in silence after he'd been sent away by the elementary school art teacher. Ian had no idea why he'd bothered to go to her, or what Mrs. Avery would have done if she had agreed with him but all he knew was that a good number of the elementary students were now scared stiff of the 'mad Mickey Milkovich.' He was getting desperate, Ian guessed.

Ian wasn't sure what he believed but he just knew that Mickey knew more on the subject than he did, so in the interest of diplomacy, had kept his personal thoughts on the subject quiet. He did feel genuinely bad for the young delinquent as he grew ever more frustrated with each dismissal.

Ian turned to a page on arrhythmias and glanced up as Mickey bolted upright on his bed, snatching his electric guitar from the foot of his bed. Ian sighed. This didn't bode well.

Mickey was a reasonably talented musician, which was not under contest, but how he chose to play was completely dependent upon his mood. And with the dark mood that currently possessed him, this was not going to be pretty.

Ian was not disappointed—well, perhaps his ears were, but that was neither here nor there. He cringed as the first screeching notes blasted into the room. He tried to tune it out and continue to read, but this proved difficult as the raucous sounds pounded down his ear canals and bounced harshly against his ear drums.

Ian gave up entirely as Mickey fired off into some bastardisation of a rapid number, notes flying off the strings in every which way, unharmonious and unpredictable.

This went on for three whole minutes before Mickey paused, fingers snapping away from the strings.

Ian, who had been watching since he lost focus, smiled tightly, trying to bite back his irritation.

"Feel any better?" he asked.

Mickey didn't even turn around.

"No," he spat and promptly threw himself back onto the bed.

Ian rolled his eyes. He stood and stretched.

"Come on, it's about time for dinner and you haven't eaten anything today… or yesterday, for that matter," Ian said.

For a moment Ian thought he was going to be ignored entirely, but with a frustrated scowl, Mickey finally rolled over and plucked his jacket off the floor.

"Fine."

"Great," Ian said with a smile.

Mickey stalked after him.

"Fantastic," he said acerbically.

Little did either Changeling know that the mystery of Linda Kaur's wandering was about to plummet to near meaninglessness on their list of priorities.

Ian had been very lucky when it came to slip-shifting, the tendency for new Changelings to accidentally shift from human form. In young Changelings there was usually no provocation at all, though in slightly more experienced Changelings, a slip-shift could be brought on by an overly emotional event. When Ian arrived, Dr. Youens had warned him that Changeling's whose first shift was unusually old or young were often found somewhere on the extremes for slip-shifting tendencies. They either were particularly prone to it or exceptionally resilient against it. Ian thanked his lucky stars that it seemed he had fallen into the latter category.

Ian had only slip-shifted once since arriving at the Institute and it had been only a few weeks after he arrived, during a football practice. This was also a good fortune. He'd burst his uniform to shreds but that was easily replaceable and instead of knocking over any furniture in the vicinity he'd only knocked over a few guys he'd been planning on knocking over anyway. This was far better than slip-shifting in a classroom.

When Ian realized what happened, he first felt embarrassed, but before anyone could react properly, Caleb Johnson, who had already been rushing him, shouted wildly and proceeded to tackle him to the ground and pin him. Ian had flailed his paws in the air and growled playfully but Caleb was a big boy and had Ian in an awkward angle for a quadruped. Then everyone was laughing, even Ian in his own barking, canine laugh. From there it was a simple matter of Caleb handing him his spare change of clothes from his practice bag and Ian trotting over to the changing booths across the field. It could have been much worse.

From then on it hadn't happened and Ian cautiously hoped to keep that record, no matter how well the Institute was prepared for it.

However, the first time that Ian witnessed another person slip-shift was that Friday night in the dining hall.

Ian had quickly spotted his friends at a table next to the far wall upon entering the hall, and when he was sure he didn't see Bonnie or Trevor anywhere near them, he led Mickey over to join them. He figured Mickey's mood couldn't get much worse so it wouldn't hurt to subject him to the friends he seemed to have very little tolerance for, and it would give Ian some other people to talk to, as he doubted Mickey would say a word through the length of this meal.

The first half of the dinner went as well as Ian had allowed himself to expect. Mickey even was picking at a bowl of spaghetti, albeit rather sullenly from where he sat to Ian's left. Ian and Joaquin talked football, and Karen and Chuckie pleasantly added to the conversation. They had become used to Mickey joining them for meals sometimes and it didn't seem to bother them anymore that he very, very rarely contributed to the small talk beyond casual insults.

There was a group of middle school students at the table to the right of theirs. It was a large group, probably seven or eight kids, and they were talking and laughing so loudly it took Ian a second to grasp the change in the cacophony.

There was an angry clatter as both plates and silverware crashed to the ground. A loud snarl ripped through the domestic sounds, unbefitting of humans. Then there was more clattering, but not just from the middle school student's table as it was rocked violently; there was sounds of falling dishes behind him, too, as he'd turned to his right instinctively to watch the chaos unfold.

Ian felt sorry for the boy who had just been a fairly average sized preteen and now had exploded into a nearly fully mature and full sized, roaring lion, golden mane flaring out wildly. Confused and lost, it gave a short growl through an open mouth as his heavy head snapped from side to side trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

Soon, the chaos died down, as a slip-shift was not an uncommon occurrence, however momentarily unsettling it was.

Ian had risen a few inches out of his seat to see better and now turned to look behind him, wondering if he'd accidentally knocked something of Mickey's off the table, causing the sounds he'd heard a moment ago.

When he turned, he indeed found all of Mickey's dinnerware and food splattered across the floor, but it was not Ian who put it there, and what he saw now rocked the rules and guidelines of Ian's world.

Mickey had fallen out of his seat, now nearly sitting on the floor and leaning all his weight on the wall. His eyes were wide, blue pupils blown fully black and locked onto the unfortunate Changeling who had slip-shifted into a large beast. Mickey's chest rose and fell rapidly, almost as if he was hyperventilating. Where his arms had pulled his school shirt taught against his chest, Ian could swear he could see Mickey's heart trying to burst out of his chest. Even seeing all of these symptoms together it took Ian an oddly long time to come to the only conclusion that made sense—Mickey looked terrified.

Something about the scenario just didn't add up. This was strange—it was wrong. But there the delinquent sat, hands fisted so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, mouth open and gasping raggedly. Almost of its own accord, as Ian's mind was still completely shocked, his body moved instinctively towards Mickey. He lowered himself down but when Mickey still made no indication that he saw anything other than the confused big cat being led out of the dining hall, he paused. His hand rose up and reached out.

"Mickey…?" he finally prompted.

The response was instantaneous. His head whipped around to Ian's face then to Ian's outstretched hand and his eyes widened even more for just a second before he closed them and exploded.

"Don't touch me!" he shouted venomously and regained mobility, shoving Ian away.

He stood and hesitated, eyes locked on Ian, who was now sprawled out on his ass. He looked frightened once more. Ian rubbed his backside and Mickey took a few steps back, head shaking in what seemed to be denial, and then, before Ian could recover, he turned and bolted, leaving Ian in a very confused, undignified heap on the floor.

In the aftermath of the student's slip-shift, most people didn’t notice the small amount of chaos that had been caused by Mickey Milkovich. Ian's friends, however, could not be included in that category. They looked as flabbergasted as Ian felt. Joaquin came over to help Ian up, offering his hand.

"Now, what the hell was that?" he asked, looking towards the door Mickey had disappeared through.

Ian stared, too.

"I have… absolutely no idea," he breathed.

Ian didn't see Mickey for the rest of the weekend. He tried knocking on his door and he tried texting but he didn't hear from, nor see, the Changeling once. It wasn't until Monday that Ian really started to worry though.

His habit of waiting for Karen, and then Mickey, after chemistry had held fast through the semester and today he was particularly eager for the bell to ring and the students to pour out. He'd looked for Mickey that morning at breakfast and knocked on his door for three straight minutes to no avail. He had no idea what he'd done to make Mickey so upset with him but he was exhausted by how it was driving him to distraction. He would corner Mickey and make him explain why he was so angry with him—or at least why he'd acted the way he had.

While it was a solid plan in theory, it was destined to never come to fruition as Karen exited the classroom last, without Ian catching a single glimpse of Mickey. Had he missed him? Ian thought, looking wildly down the hallway as Karen approached him.

"He wasn't in class," she said, clearly understanding what Ian was looking for.

Ian's head snapped back to meet her eyes.

"What?" he said.

Karen's fingers tightened around her text book.

"Milkovich. He wasn't there," she repeated. "I asked Lindsey and she said that he wasn't in Advanced Literature either."

Ian's brow furrowed and a troubled feeling settled over him. This wasn't right. Mickey skipped classes regularly but usually it was because he was doing something more important, something he usually informed Ian of in great detail. And with the events of the last few days, a newer, more concerning picture was forming. Ian didn't know what it meant but it made his stomach twist uncomfortably. A foul taste persisted on his tongue until the bell that rang the end of his chemistry class finally released him. By the time he made it through the doorway into the corridor, he wouldn't have been able to tell anyone what his teacher had taught that day.

Ian heaved his bag over his shoulder and with quick footsteps he made his way directly towards A Wing. His breathing had thickened by the time he reached the top of the sixth flight of stairs as he had taken them two at a time. He didn't bother taking the time to drop his school bag and instead passed straight by, bee-lining for 631A.

He didn't knock politely this time and just banged his fist against the door solidly, aiming to startle. He heard something fall to the floor inside. Just what he'd wanted.

"Damnit, Mickey! I know you're in there! Let me in!"

There was no response. Ian slammed his fist against the door once more, knowing he was making a little bit of a scene and not caring much at all.

"If you don't stop being a childish prick and open this door, I'm going to break it down," Ian shouted through the wood.

Whether or not Ian would have actually done so remains to be seen, as when he raised his fist to pound on the door once more, it swung open to reveal a very unhealthy, very angry Mickey Milkovich.

"The fuck, Gallagher?! What?!" he shouted back.

Mickey made a movement to turn around and slam the door as he realized he'd breached his own defenses but Ian threw a hand out and caught it, pushing his way in. The door swung shut behind him and Mickey stomped away. Ian let his school bag fall to the floor.

"Where the hell have you been?" Ian asked angrily.

Mickey shot a glare over his shoulder as he made to go back to his bed where Ian suspected, by the look of it, he had been for the past three days. Mickey lookedlike hell now that Ian actually looked. His cheeks were thin and pale and his eyes had dark, heavy rings beneath them. The normally wavy black hair was lank and limp, oiley and unwashed.

Mickey threw himself back onto the bed and curled into an unresponsive ball.

"I don't know what I did that was so terrible, to piss you off so badly, but I would appreciate it if you could give me a fucking clue!" Ian shouted, his worry translating into anger somewhere along the way.

Mickey twisted to glare venomously in his direction, the effect was lessened, though, when Ian saw he was shaking, very lightly trembling. He counted back the days before the slip-shift event to the last time he knew Mickey had gone into the forest. Last Monday, he finally calculated. No wonder he looked like hell.

"Mickey, when was the last time you Changed?" Ian asked, forcing his voice to a slightly calmer register.

Ian knew that tremble was a side effect of repressing the shift instinct. It was unpleasant and never led to anything good. Mickey's eyes narrowed and he rolled back over, blocking Ian out.

"None of your fuckin’ business!" he threw over his shoulder.

"Of course not! Of course it's not!" Ian shouted, utterly exasperated. "Why should it be?! I'm only your friend!"

At those words Mickey rolled, off the bed and to his feet, face reddening. His stance was wide and would have been strong except for that damned shake that kept capturing Ian's attention. That wasn't good. Why was he doing this to himself? What was wrong?

"I don't have friends!" he hissed, the last word spit like it tasted bad.

That struck Ian somewhere he hadn't even thought to defend. His eyes widened and he lost ground for a moment, but then he saw the way Mickey was still shaking like a leaf now and the way his chest rose and fell rapidly like it had the last evening they'd been together.  _ Fear _ . Why did he keep forgetting that Mickey was human, too? He could feel fear.

Ian sighed tiredly and took a step towards the person he'd moments ago thought to be a friend. Maybe he'd been wrong. It didn't matter. He ignored the wounds for now, ignored how much it really did hurt.

"Look, let's get you out to the woods. You'll feel better after you Change," Ian said, reaching out.

Mickey's eyes snapped open and he opened his mouth to protest, or shout, and began to jump backwards. Then something happened that nobody at the Malcolm X Institute had ever witnessed, all in response to an outstretched befreckled hand that managed to barely brush the clothed shoulder.

The beast in Mickey exploded. Maybe it was that he'd resisted changing for too long. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism in the face of feelings he'd forgotten how to cope with, but whatever it was, Mickey Milkovich was slip-shifting.

It was over in a second. There were shredded clothes scattered about the room, barely noticeable in the preexisting clutter, and Mickey stood on all fours, ribcage heaving and powerful jaw hanging open, head hung low.

Ian was speechless. His mouth was open, he knew, and he couldn't remember how to shut it. The panther stood frozen for a few moments and then, wide, shocked blue eyes narrowed, still staring at the floor, and a sound escaped the Changeling that, if it had come from anyone but Mickey, could have been called a sob.

"Mickey…" Ian breathed and the head snapped up to meet his eyes, muzzle wrinkled, exposing teeth in a way that wasn't aggressive but… sad.

The Changeling began to back slowly away but this time Ian knew he couldn't give in. In a daze he followed. The sounds of heavy, soft paws sliding backwards across the floor were matched by human footfalls, and they finally stopped as Mickey had backed himself into the corner between his bed and night table. There, he seemed to curl back and away from the approaching shape that was Ian. Finally close enough, Ian dropped to his knees, eyelevel with the panther's narrowed, fearful gaze.

He tried to speak but was still unable. Instead he reached out, and when Mickey pulled his head back Ian forced himself not to flinch away. Mickey's whiskers quivered and breath escaped through his open maw. Still Ian didn't stop. Not this time.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second when he was no more than a hair’s breadth away from touching Mickey's dark ruff. Then, ever so gently, sliding forward, he slid his fingers deep into the midnight fur on Mickey's neck. Ian heard him hiss and felt him tense, eyes locked on the place where his hand met fur.

Then the spell was broken and the panther shift seemed to collapse forward, forehead plowing into Ian's shoulder. He was heavy and Ian had to brace himself to stop them both from tumbling to the ground. He leaned back against the bed for support.

If they had both been in human form then it could have been a sort of hug, but in these forms it was an awkwardly comfortable half embrace, Ian inclining against the bed and Mickey leaning his full weight into his shoulder, Ian's body and arms holding him up.

Ian didn't know how long they stayed like that. He still didn't have any of the answers he came for and he no longer cared in the slightest. Mickey was in pain and Ian didn't know why, but he didn't need to know why to know what he had to do to help. All he was responsible for was making sure Mickey didn't fall to the ground. That was all that mattered right now—as long as it took.

The light was draining out of the sky now. Ian could see that through the window, and his arm had fallen asleep hours ago. The heat of Mickey's feline breath had created a damp patch on Ian's shirt that was hidden beneath the heavy, black head and still Ian didn't move. He wouldn't move. As darkness fell over the Institute Ian stayed, and Mickey made no move to force him out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: All the trigger warnings on this story begin to apply in this chapter.

Ian woke late that night with a crick in his neck and a sore spot in his back from where he'd somehow managed to fall asleep sitting against the bed frame. He was freezing, arms limp at his sides. After a moment of sorting through his memories, and recalling exactly where he was and why he was there, he immediately, albeit groggily, lolled his head from side to side, trying to figure out where Mickey was.

He wasn't far. The Changeling had slipped down and was now curled into a tight ball in the corner created by his bed and wall. He was still resting in the shape of a great cat and his black, sleek back mostly hid his head from view, but from the steady rise and fall of his ribcage, Ian could only assume he was asleep.

From where Ian sat, he could just see the tapering tips of Mickey's scars curling over his shoulder blade. They were black like the rest of his melanistic skin, but even masked by his midnight pelt, they were too large to go unnoticed. While Ian had never seen them himself, he knew they were present on Mickey’s human body as well. Just beneath his clothes the scars disfigured his otherwise flawless pale skin. They were old, those scars, that Ian could tell. They had grown larger as Mickey had. He was so used to seeing them there, just lightly marring the black coat, that he usually overlooked them at this point. Ian overlooked so much these days.

Mandy's words floated back to him. He knew he probably should have considered the elder Milkovich's words with more care. Mickey certainly provided him with no evidence to disprove anything Mandy had claimed; in fact, in some ways he continually supported his sister’s concerns. Ian really didn't know a damned thing about Mickey. He knew something about his personality, his moods, and his abilities, but other than what he'd heard through school gossip, Mickey hadn't provided Ian with a single scrap of information.

[ **_Don't touch me!_ ** ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/4e7d014a2186b1c5e236dc24f40d3e98/db2a4ede03c46be6-cc/s400x600/24e6bfbb0ccb472cbc051530e4e4404745db8f95.gifv)

The acid soaked words echoed around in his head. Ian could still see Mickey's face in his mind. Ian's expectations had been clouding his perception of the event. He'd seen only vicious anger in Mickey's face, but tonight had officially and completely shattered that delusion and left something much more awful in its place, because where Ian had once seen a cocktail of anger and fright was now an image of unquenchable terror—terror and something…  [ broken ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/882db6deb2c98aadc4c26ce74928fcde/7d9aa38e89576b13-4b/s400x600/fd4c383d2db12519a3e7908c29d2288273fe82ad.gifv) .

Something had been shattered. Ian had seen it in the eyes of the panther, when Mickey pushed it too far and lost control. Something that was usually carefully guarded and shut away had escaped.

One of Mickey's fluffy ears twitched in his sleep. Ian brought both of his hands up to rub his face sleepily. He sighed. He was way out of his depth.

_ But can you handle Mickey, himself? _

Was this what Mandy had been talking about? The shadows that had allegedly shaped him? Ian didn't know, but his insides were finally settling. The wrongness he'd felt, guts twisting into knots, was gone now. This felt right, having Mickey here. So he wouldn't give up just yet. It was always a long game when it came to Mickey, but he always played it out. He'd ask Mickey tomorrow, about everything, and it would be okay, because, no matter what Mickey thought or felt, they were friends.

Ian carefully rose to his feet, and as he moved away, a dark, sleek tail that had wound around his ankle loosened and then curled around Mickey's coiled body.

\---

The next morning Ian knocked on Mickey's door, fully prepared to ask a multitude of questions and get at least one answer from the elusive delinquent, but then the door flew open and Ian was surprised and utterly derailed. Mickey was in his school uniform, all of it, from the jacket to shined black shoes. He was even wearing his tie, red stripes indicating he was indeed still a High Schooler. And then there was his face.  [ He was smiling ](https://images.moviefit.me/p/b/14466-noel-fisher.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) , and his eyes were wide and bright.

"Morning, sleepyface!" he said animatedly. "Time for breakfast, don't you think? I'm fuckin’ starving!"

This was only getting stranger. Had Ian dreamt up the last few days? What the hell was going on? Before Ian even had a chance to respond, Mickey was whipping past him into the hallway.

Ian opened his mouth to ask what Mickey thought he was doing, but he was interrupted before he could start.

"Whatdya think about a cup of coffee, Gallagher? Sound good?" Mickey asked him as he whisked down the hallway, leaving Ian with no choice but to follow.

No, no, no, this was ridiculous!

"M-Mickey!" Ian stammered and his friend stopped abruptly, turning towards him with a winning smile.

"Yeah?" he asked, high cheeks flushed.

Ian shook his head, lips slightly parted. Mickey's eyes were open and waiting. Ian paused for a moment, letting his brain catch up. Mickey had to know Ian would see through this strange show he was putting on. Ian wasn't stupid. He wasn't seriously going to just pretend the last seventy two hours hadn’t happened.

But in that short pause Ian noticed something. There was something else behind the cheerful shine in Mickey's eyes—absolute desperation. It was as clear in Ian's mind as when Mickey spoke to him in Malcolm X Forest.

Mickey's eyes were begging him not to ask all the questions just waiting to jump off his tongue. Ian would have told anyone who said Mickey possessed the ability to beg that they were a liar… but right now, just under the skin of pleasantries that were also ridiculously uncharacteristic, Mickey's whole being begged one sentiment: Please. Please, don't ask, Ian, please…

So Ian did the only thing he could possibly do in such a situation.

"You're right," he said with a small smile. "Coffee sounds good."

Mickey blinked once in surprise, faltering, before he smiled again, noticeably less forced. Then, together, the pair made their way down to the dining hall.

. . .

The last few days of spring semester passed quickly. It was a flurry of last minute homework and projects, packing, and arrangements, though only about half of the population of the Institute was preparing to return to their families.

Unlike most boarding schools, Institutes were open all year round. This was for many reasons, but the two primary reasons were that the Institutes were much better equipped to handle the needs of young Changelings, which often made city living very difficult, especially for those with shifts of great size or any special needs. Because of this, the Institute highly recommended Changelings within a year or two of their first Change, depending on their age, stay on campus through the majority of the summer months.

The other reason was less discussed but equally—if not more—important. Sometimes Changelings were born into primarily Normal households, as Ian had been. The recessive gene was frequently buried in a family's bloodline, but some families were not so accepting as the Gallaghers. It wasn't as common these days, but it still happened: newly shifted Changelings being rejected by their Normal kin. It was a sad thing, but the Institute always made sure that those children had a welcoming home.

Other than the two large logistical reasons young Changelings stayed through the summer, many older Changelings also stayed for a multitude of reasons. The college students were often independent and worked in the nearby towns, and the High Schoolers often chose to get summer jobs. For others the Institute was just home now.

Due to Ian's seemingly stable tendencies against slip-shifting and the ease at which he settled, he'd faced no opposition when he'd decided to return home at the end of term. Monica was home, for now, and had been very persistent in her pursuit to have Ian home as soon as possible, at least for a visit. While he was looking forward to visiting his family—his siblings at least—he couldn't completely suppress the reluctance as well as the worming discomfort that the thought of leaving inspired. Frank and Monica were always going to be a recipe for disaster, and the less time he spent with them, the better. Monica’s sudden interest wasn’t motherly; it felt like the inception of some scam or another.

Ian wasn't in the dark about why he wanted to stay either. Mickey had seemed much better since that Tuesday morning. He seemed to be eating more than normal, which was still less than anyone else, but it was something. He'd even turned in all his final papers and projects. He'd gone into the woods almost every day with Ian since then. They were both going more than normal. Mickey, to make up for his self neglect and Ian, because he wanted to get as much time under the trees before being cooped up in the city proper for weeks.

Most people would have taken this as a good sign, and indeed it had made Mickey look the healthiest Ian had seen him since he'd known him, but it wasn't the health of his body that worried Ian at the present. He'd catch little visions of it behind Mickey's carefully constructed mask, and even more he couldn't help but feel it brushing against his mind when they were in the forest—a broken emptiness, something wrong. Nor could he forget the way he looked on that morning, no matter how far away it seemed under the gaze of the sun. At night it felt far too real.

Then, before Ian could seem to get a handle on a single thing, he was locking his door, 614A, with a heavy duffle slung over his shoulder. He was worried he wouldn't catch most of his friends before he left. Karen had taken off the previous evening and said goodbye at dinner, and then he ran into Chuckie before he reached the sixth floor stair well.

Ian found Joaquin in the cafeteria with Bonnie and Trevor, along with a few others. Joaquin hopped up from the bench seat and then came over to meet Ian. He and Chuckie both weren't going home right away. Mickey was staying as well.

"You headed off?" he asked as he approached.

"Yup, I'll be eating take-out chicken before sundown," Ian said cheekily.

Sure enough a wistful look crossed Joaquin's face.

"I envy you," he said. "Bring leftovers when you come back."

Ian laughed and then an awkward twist hit his stomach as he prepared himself for what he wanted to say next.

"No leftovers at my house, everyone’s too hungry. Hey, uh, let me know if Mickey does anything too crazy, will you?" Ian forced a chuckle, trying to play it off as a joke.

Joaquin pursed his lips and Ian realized he probably hadn't been very successful with his façade. Joaquin took it well.

"You'll be the first to know," he smiled, and Ian inwardly sighed with relief.

Ian almost gave up on catching Mickey before he left. He swallowed his distaste as he put his duffle in the back of the cab that would take him to the bus Station.

"Hey, Gallagher?" the voice made his head turn, and he smiled.

Mickey had obviously just come from the library as there were several thick volumes in his arms.

"You aren't going to destroy these ones are you?" Ian laughed softly.

Mickey scowled lightly.

"I've told you, I didn't destroy the others. Even returned them, eventually." Mickey defended himself.

Ian just giggled.

"Dude, they all had pages missing, pages you poured acid on if I recall," Ian laughed, but then sobered. "The bus is waiting…"

"Right, yeah," Mickey said, stepping back so Ian could get around the bumper.

"Don't get into too much trouble without me, okay?" Ian said, trying not to sound legitimately worried. "And let me know if you figure out that case from the papers, the double homicide."

Huh, Ian wouldn't have seen those words falling casually from his mouth six months ago. So much had changed.

Mickey nodded and Ian hesitated for just a moment before he climbed into the bus. He leaned back in his seat and felt the engine come alive beneath him. As he began to roll away he risked a glance back to see Mickey still standing there, looking thin and fragile in front of Malcolm X Hall, and Ian fought very hard the instinct that said things were about to shift irreversibly once more.

. . .

Mickey had fallen asleep sometime just before sunrise. There were many reasons why Mickey normally avoided sleep. He would tell people the chief reason for his blood pact with insomnia was that he found sleep an utter waste of time—which was completely true, however, it was not the reason the habit began. It had started as a way to avoid the nightmares. Even as a child his mind could figure out nothing was hiding in the dark, while he was awake, but when he slept, his own mind turned against him. The only thing that could beat him. He mostly grew out of the nightmares. They'd faded, but then there would be a trigger, and they would return with a harsh vengeance—as they did now.

Mickey was in his childhood bedroom, with a tiny body to match, same striped pajamas he grew out of so quickly but was forced to keep wearing for lack of replacements. But it wasn't  _ quite  _ his bedroom… it was arranged like it, the little rickety bed, the large bureau in the corner, but there were no walls, just a shadowed forest. The dark trees and bushes spread in all directions and there was nothing but night above and earth below. For someone so logical, his brain came up with some pretty creative settings.

Then he heard a growl and his heart stuttered in his tiny chest before restarting and madly trying to escape his ribcage. Chemicals were amazing. It was all just drugs his body was making— the fear rushing through his too small body. No matter how many times he repeated that simple fact… even when he was this small, he was always pissed when it didn't make him any less terrified.

The brain releases Epinephrine… Norepinephrine… The pituitary gland releases Corticotropin-releasing factor… Adrenocorticotropic hormone… They all work to trigger dozens of other hormones… this creates the fear… The brain releases Epinephrine… All the worst drugs, never the good ones.

He repeated it over and over but his heart still pounded and his tiny hands still shook.

A branch snapped somewhere behind him and he turned, wanting so badly to run to his bed and bury himself beneath the blankets, but he was frozen and unable to move an inch.

It was so dark. Why was it so dark?! No moon looked down, it couldn't see him. It never saw.

There was that growl again, part man part beast.

He had had to escape. He had to protect himself—somehow—someway. He had to change. Stop this. Stop it!

Then he was no longer a child but a cub, paws too big for his body and claws too small to do anything. No, it was never enough to stop it but sometimes it slowed it. He was shaking so hard on his short bowed legs, tail curled around him.

It was close now. Mickey could hear the breathing, harsh and rough. Cold, horrible eyes glinted in the freezing starlight. The ripping growls were so loud now, consuming. Mickey was aware he was mewling pathetically, a sad sound only befitting of the helpless cub he was… so helpless. Why did no one save him?

The snarling was eating at his insides and the monster was so close now.

Nobody could stop this.

Nobody could save him.

He curled in on himself.

**< Come now, that's enough!> ** the beast snarled impatiently.

Mickey knew what was expected but he just couldn't move.

**< Look at me!>**

He tried, but he couldn't.

There was a violent roar and finally Mickey's head snapped up but it was too late. A blood golden haze consumed him. There were flashing eyes, sharp teeth, razor claws raised, and then pain.

**< NO…!> ** cried the voice of a cub, sad snarl hitting the air in time.

Mickey gasped awake, back arching against fabricated pain that was now long gone. He was shivering and sweaty. Of its own accord his hand came up to clench over his rib cage where he could feel the raised knotted tissue even through his now damp and wrinkled tee shirt. His face contorted before he forced his muscles to relax completely. Then he lay still.

He would have been content to stay like that, a statue, for the rest of the day, if not for the knock on his door a few hours later. It was dark in the room but Mickey could see it was now completely light outside. Mickey fully planned to ignore the knock but the knob turned and Mickey cursed internally for two reasons. First, for forgetting to lock the fuckin' door and second, according to a nanosecond's deduction, based upon the fact that Mickey only knew two people who would barge into his room, and one of those two people was at his family home very far away from the prodigious Malcolm X Institute, the only person who could be walking into his room now was…

"Hello, my dear brother."

Mickey rolled his eyes and flipped onto his side so he wouldn't have to look at his pretentious sister. Unfortunately, he hadn't plugged his ears.

"I didn't come here to start a fight with you, Mickey," Mandy said, something far worse than inflammatory in her voice. "I heard about what happened just before the end of the semester."

The words hung in the air and Mickey determinedly didn't respond. He could picture Mandy, though, gazing down at him with that absolutely hateful mix of pity, irritation and guilt. So much for not seeing her—he remembered it clearly enough.

"He's not stupid, Mickey. He's already guessing. What you have with Gallagher… if you stay near his presence you have to know it's inevitable - you won't be able to hide it forever. It's simply not possible. And, Mickey, would it really be so bad if he knew…?"

Mickey stared at the wall and tried to pretend he was somewhere else but logic was getting in the way. Yes! It would be so bad he wanted to say. But for some reason he couldn't.

"I think you’re unable to do what's best… what even you want," Mandy's voice was hardening. "I'm going to see him today. I came here because I thought you might want to know."

He should be moving, reacting, shouting, but he didn't. He lay there paralyzed as he heard that fuckin' sounds of Mandy’s signature fancy ass heels click against the floor, and as he heard footsteps—the turn of a knob, the squeak of the hinges, a door closing—and still he wasn't moving.

Did Mandy just ask Mickey his permission to… to…

With a sudden intake of breath, Mickey bolted upright, hands fisting in the bed clothes, as a more important question struck him.

Had he just given her that permission?!

A little part of him wanted to chase after Mandy, demand, beg, that she stop. He felt sick as he thought of Ian's face, and then that face marred with disgust. He would leave, most likely. In his place Mickey might. Maybe that was better—after all. He was used to being alone. Alone was safe.

Mickey pulled the old numbness in, let it drown him. He sat against the wall, drew his knees up and slowly laid his cheek upon them. His blue eyes were open but empty.

It was for the best…

. . .

Two weeks after he arrived home, Ian lay on his back on his twin bed in his old room. The room was small; Ian didn't mind as it meant he was just a few blocks away from town, which had been quite an asset over the years.

He could faintly hear the chime of the bell on the door that said someone was entering the house. Ian wondered if or when Frank would be home.

His real father had been both a military man and a doctor. This had influenced many of Ian's life goals and all of his values. Clayton had been a successful surgeon in Chicago, after the army, when he met Ian's mother, already married to his older brother, Frank. They’d talked of moving out of the city when they decided to have children, thus allowing his mum to pursue her dreams. Those dreams never materialized, Monica never left Frank, and Ian became yet another middle Gallagher child.

Clayton now worked as a family practitioner in a small suburb and when, in one of their infrequent phone calls, Ian asked him if he missed the excitement of the city and the big family, he said he didn't usually, and was glad to have put a little distance between himself and Monica. However, there was something in the lines of his face when he said it that made Ian suspect that if he didn't miss the city, he at least remembered Monica fondly.

"So, do I have to take you on walks now?"

Ian hadn't bothered to unpack properly so his things were scattered around his room in a way that was seriously irking his father. Lip Gallagher currently leaned against his open door, eyes locked onto Ian's marker hanging from his desk chair. Ian didn't know why he'd brought it, an accident really, as he obviously wouldn't need it.

"I can walk myself, thank you very much," Ian said, tone sour.

Lip just laughed and secretly Ian had to admit it had sounded better in his head. Determined not to give his brother any more satisfaction, Ian reached for his mobile and checked his inbox, ignoring him.

"Still texting your boyfriend?"

Fucking hell, he was insufferable.

Since Ian had arrived back, his younger siblings had, of course, wanted to hear all about his first semester at Malcolm X. Due to the sheer amount of time he and Mickey spent together it was inevitable that he came up often in conversation. Lip and Fiona had noticed, and since had latched on to the boyfriend joke, not that it was meant as an insult exactly—obviously, as Lip and Fiona had friends as gay as they come—but it got under Ian's skin to have to correct them and it was wearing on him. It was particularly annoying this time because she'd been right.

Not about the boyfriend part, but the Mickey part was correct. Mickey had texted him a lot since he'd been home. Usually they were a simple statement of boredom, to which Ian had taken to looking up obscure riddles on the internet and sending them to Mickey to see how long it would take him to solve them—usually no time at all. Mickey also texted him if he figured out one of the murder files, or finished an experiment. He'd solved two cases and a number of experiments since Ian had been home. However, Ian hadn't heard from Mickey once today and that strange instinct was pricking at his mind again.

He was really in no mood to handle Lip’s instigating.

Without a word he rolled off his bed and grabbed his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Lip asked, as he donned the garment.

"For a walk," Ian said shortly.

Before he could figure out another way to bait him, Ian stepped around his hand and headed for the stairs, not for the first time wishing it was Malcolm X Forest he was headed towards.

Monica was busy in a cursing match with Fiona so Ian slipped out without a word. The roads weren't very busy at this time of day and the silvered sky was just dimming as the sun started to sink. Ian turned right, heading past Mr. Karib’s corner store. There weren't many other people walking around on the sidewalks and there was a strange quiet about.

A car drove by and then Ian saw a woman standing on the street corner ahead of him. She was tall, well dressed, and looked more than out of place in Ian's dingy neighborhood. One foot was crossed over the other and balanced on the toe of her shoe. She leaned on a black umbrella, though the sky showed no signs of rain. She was watching him, the young Changeling realized. It was a little unsettling, almost like she was waiting for him, and Ian tried to ignore it at first but he realized there was something distinctly  _ familiar  _ about the unfitting woman.

He glanced up to meet the level gaze and they weren't so far away from one another now, and with an uncomfortable certainty, Ian suddenly had no doubt about the identity of the strange woman.

"Mandy," he said as she came to a stop in front of him, almost like she knew he was coming.

The woman's lips twitched.

"Very good, Ian. I didn't expect you to recognize me in this form," she said conversationally.

Ian wasn't having it. People like Mandy didn't just drop by to chat with teenagers.

"Why are you here? Is Mickey okay?" Ian asked tersely.

Mandy immediately dropped the pretense of pleasantries.

"Would you come inside?" Mandy asked, nodding towards the tiny café on the corner—it looked long ago closed.

Ian stiffened and glanced towards the ground.

"What? No viper this time?" Ian asked bitterly.

To her credit, Mandy did look at least slightly chagrined.

"I misjudged your character and I don’t believe it’s necessary," she said, notably excluding an apology. "This, however, is indeed about my brother. So, if you would…"

Her head inclined towards the café once more and an internal war raged inside Ian as he knew intuitively what Mandy's intentions must be. He tried futilely to balance his irritation and mistrust in Mandy, and his desperation to know the truth and his compromised loyalty. He decided the last was the most important.

"No, I… it's not for you to say," Ian said, staring at the sidewalk and loathing his parents for raising him with such high moral standards. "I can't just… let you do this behind his back. If he doesn't want me to know…"

Mandy folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella.

"Very noble, Ian Gallagher, but are you sure that's the truth?" Mandy asked archly. "Are you sure it's not that he doesn't  _ want  _ you to know, but that he can't bring  _ himself  _ to tell you?"

Ian rocked back on his heels and brought up all the memories of Mickey. His denial of questions,  [ his begging eyes ](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Flookaside.fbsbx.com%2Flookaside%2Fcrawler%2Fmedia%2F%3Fmedia_id%3D2309062615780538&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2F859888264031321%2Fposts%2Ffucking-gallagherdeleted-scene-season-9%2F2309062645780535%2F&tbnid=PH1IS9A8cnPXeM&vet=12ahUKEwiT9vqGpPbuAhUhnuAKHdP5CZsQMyhPegQIARB6..i&docid=SFeClCjIviddLM&w=768&h=960&q=mickey%20smile%20milkovich&ved=2ahUKEwiT9vqGpPbuAhUhnuAKHdP5CZsQMyhPegQIARB6) , and then a thought occurred to Ian that he hadn't considered before.

Perhaps when he'd begged it wasn't a plea of, ' _ Please, don't ask because I don't want you to know' _ but,  _ 'Please, don't ask because I can’ tell you.' _

While the thought was intriguing, it wasn't enough to shake Ian's misgivings.

"Why wouldn't he just tell me?"

"You’re not an idiot, Ian. Don't pretend you’re completely blind to Mickey's circumstances."

Ian's chest puffed out defensively at that, though the barb went straight to his heart where his terrible suspicions had bloomed.

"How could you possibly know that he wants me to know?" Ian said, looking defiantly at Mandy.

Mandy sighed, obviously tired of this game. Her eyes narrowed.

"Because I told him I was coming here today, and he didn't try to stop me," she said it simply, and without another word began moving towards the empty café.

Ian hesitated for a moment, feeling his stomach unsettle. His hand clenched around his mobile, the one that had been concerningly silent all day. He saw Mickey alone in the dark and his panther hissing in pain and then Ian followed Mandy into the café.

The lights were on inside but no one was visible. Ian wouldn't run. He followed Mandy to a small table. They sat, Mandy overly controlled and Ian stiffly.

Mandy looked far away and they sat in awkward silence for a while. Ian didn't complain.

"Where to begin…" Mandy finally murmured, not wanting to begin at all.

Ian stared at her, determined to hold composure, as the tale of betrayal began.

"When I was a child I was considered my father’s female double—clever, capable… I was talented and ambitious and there was no doubt that I was going to be very successful in our family’s line of work. So, when I tell you Mickey was special from birth… well you already know about his cleverness, his abilities… but when he was young there was something about him. There was a light in his eyes, so brilliant and so curious he was, always got into the strangest things as a toddler…" Mandy trailed off, voice a strange mix of fondness and emptiness. "But around the time of Mickey's third birthday something was different in him. Then Mickey made the first Change."

The surprise knocked Ian out of his stoicism.

"What! At age three…? But that's—can that happen?" Ian asked.

Mandy's mouth curled and for an odd second Ian thought she was jealous of her younger brother but then he noticed the pallor in her face and Ian knew she wasn't green with envy but with suppressed nausea.

"Yes, it happens… very rarely. The latest research has shown that if a young Changeling is repeatedly exposed to extremely high levels of stress or hopelessness… desperation can manifest in the Change…"

Oh god. Oh god. The thoughts pounded around like elephants in Ian's head as his brain was figuring it out far faster than his mind was able to cope with.

**_Don't touch me!_ **

The memory was so clear.

"We should have realized then… but I was too young… and my mother was so blinded by the drugs. My father, Terry Milkovich, was a successful man. He was at the center of the underworld social sphere, influential and intelligent. His shift was a lion, staying true to the tendency that the Milkovich bloodline had towards feline forms. Oh, he was always a fearsome man and I remember I used to so badly want to be like him—Mom always said I possessed his finer qualities, but he never showed more than a passing interest in me. My father only had children to fulfill what he believed to be a duty to the family line, but he took a special interest in my younger brother. I remember I used to be so bitter about it, too," Mandy chuckled but there wasn't a trace of humor in her voice, only a sickly self-deprecation. "We were both smart, quick thinkers, but Mickey was so much more special, and he had this innocent glow about him… but as I said, that changed when he turned three. He no longer ran about the house giggling and screaming, asking me to play with him when I was home. He still played some games, but mostly he spent an exorbitant amount of time as a black cub, or hidden in nooks and crannies of the estate, reading books far too serious for a child. Mom thought it was just a phase. I was too busy with myself and my social life to have an opinion…"

Ian's knuckles were white where his clenched fists pressed harshly against the tops of his thighs. It sounded so horribly lonely, the picture Mandy was painting.

"Two years passed and nobody suspected a thing," Mandy said, and Ian swore the room tilted because gravity, along with all that was good and right with the world, had obviously failed. "While Mickey's originally gentle nature came from my mother, his addictive personality certainly came from our father, whose other addictions finally triggered his undoing… it happened late one night when my father returned drunk from one of his many anti- social functions. I was home and everyone was sleeping… so he—he did what he always did on such nights… when nobody was there to see—to stop him… excuse me…"

Distantly Ian could tell Mandy was having trouble with her composure. She was completely green. Ian thought he might vomit.

"But he was so intoxicated he wasn't as in control as he usually was… Mickey had shifted. We later learned he—Mickey, he'd change sometimes, on accident or not, trying to… to stop it… protect himself in some way."

Ian could see the panther hiding in the shadows of the forest, eyes guarded, and now he knew why. Ian was sure he was going to be sick as well. The words washed around him, and he could barely absorb them, but they wormed their way into his being somehow.

"This night, when Mickey changed, our father became enraged. He—he couldn't… couldn't do anything… while Mickey was in that form," Mandy faltered, unable to say the worst. "He began screaming at Mickey… apparently he wouldn't shift back that night for some reason. That's what woke me… the shouting. I ran to Mickey's room… mine wasn't far away."

Mandy had closed her eyes now and her pretty hand was trembling—some detached part of Ian realized that such a powerful woman shaking like this was something few would ever bear witness to. It didn't make him feel special, though. It was awful.

"I will never forget what I saw when I pushed open the door…" Mandy's voice slipped out as no more than a breath now, lost to the dark past. "I remember that my brother's pajamas were thrown on the floor… I remember wondering why. For all the other things, I remember that the most. But then I did see my father. He'd already shifted by the time I arrived… then there was the blood—he'd gone too far. I think I screamed… it was chaos… my baby brother was bleeding on the floor from where my father had lashed out… with inborn weapons… but the physical damage was nothing at the end of that day… I… I should have seen… we were just so young…"

Mandy's coherency was failing her and though he couldn't move, Ian's entire being screamed against the horror. The rebellion against reality was making him ill.

**_Mickey…!_ **

Images flooded his head, feelings remembered, too. All the shadows Ian felt brushing against his mind were brought into harsh, devastating context… he'd suspected something horrible, but—Jesus—not this. He saw Mickey's face in his mind's eye, studying, deducing, scowling, smiling… he felt like dry heaving but instead he just froze more completely—tried to become a statue. Stone couldn't feel like this.

Unable to make herself say the rest of the words, the woman before Ian lowered her head. She took a deep breath and then looked up at the statue boy.

"The rest of my family, my uncles and such, banished my father…" Mandy started once more, and Ian's head snapped up, coming to life, revealing the light sheen of sweat that had gathered on his skin.

"What?!" Ian blurted. "The—the bastard isn't in prison?!"

Mandy's face had hardened once more.

"He’s not. My mom thought it was bad enough already and it would just make it worse to put Mickey through the ordeal of a trial. And Mickey begged my mother not to make him do it. So she sent our father far, far away…"

"He deserves to rot in a prison cell!" Ian found himself shouting.

He deserves to die. The thought surprised him—not in its wording but in the fact that Ian realized he'd have no qualms about making it reality himself.

"It wouldn't have helped Mickey. Although, I’ll say I would have handled the situation… differently than our mother had I been in her place as I'm now… but she was so soft, and I was still a child."

Their gazes held one another for a moment and Ian realized Mandy may well have felt exactly the same way as Ian did on the subject.

"Then what," Ian forced out, needing to see this through now.

"We tried to send Mickey to therapy, but he just flat out refused. Wouldn't even say a word to one of them. He was never the same. All he asked was to go to the Malcolm X Institute, where he'd always wanted to attend when our parents decided he was old enough. We tried to get him to come to Overfield where I attended, but he insisted on Malcolm X, and in the end my mother relented. He came home sometimes… but to this day he avoids coming back. The rest of the story you know."

Yes… Ian did. He floated back to his first day at Malcolm X, Joaquin's words ringing in his ears.

He doesn't talk to people if he can help it and he never slip-shifts. And he doesn't have friends.

Ian knew his eyes were glassed over but no tears fell. This was too horrible for that.

The moments dragged by as Ian stared unseeing. Mandy watched, waiting to see how the first person who had gotten anywhere near Mickey reacted to the truth of him.

"Ian?" she finally prompted.

The world lurched again, but then Ian realized it wasn't the world that had moved but his body. He heard the chair he'd been previously occupying clatter loudly against the floor as he stood violently, though it all sounded so far away. When his hand grasped the doorknob he heard Mandy calling after him but he had to go.

He had to go.

He stumbled into the street, out into the fading light. He tripped, but he managed to stop his fall by throwing out a hand to brace against a lamp post. He pulled himself forward, breath huffing out in unsteady puffs. Still he kept moving. He had to.

He ran down the empty street, in and out of pools of lamplight. Before he knew it he was on the stairs of his family's home, Frank's voice following him. Monica asked what was wrong. Lip called him a freak, but none of that mattered. It didn't fuckin' matter. Ian had no idea what he was doing, but his hands were frantically shoving his possessions into his duffle. His hand closed around his marker, cold metal buckle shocking his skin. The zipper of his bag screamed as he ripped it shut.

He really didn't know what he was doing.

He counted his breaths, in and out through his nose, eyes tightly shut in the back of a crosstown bus. Then he listened to the whistling rumble of a high speed train flying across the skin of the world, and still he had no idea what he thought he was doing.

He wasn't even sure when his foot finally hit the top step of the sixth flight of stairs in the A Wing dorms at the Malcolm X Institute. It was late and his breathing was loud in the empty hallway. He carelessly dropped his bag on the doorstep of 614A without even slowing or checking to see where it fell. He was running and the urgency he couldn't explain was clawing so unbearably at his chest that it was painful. He had to go.

He definitely didn't know what he was doing when, without a second's pause, his hand reached out and twisted the knob of the door marked 631A and flung it open. Light poured into the dark room and a head whipped around instinctually at the burse of noise. He sat on his bed, leaning against the wall, knees tucked up to his chest. Blue eyes were currently snapped wide open in utter shock, pink lips parted in surprise.

"Mick," Ian breathed, lungs easing.

Mickey opened his mouth to say something, but then it was as if he suddenly remembered the only reason why Ian would be here, now, and then his face contorted for a moment, and Ian not only saw but felt the pain, the shame.

Christ, what now? What could he possibly say?

When Ian couldn't speak, Mickey managed to compose himself, life seeming to drain out of him. He looked away and rested his head against the wall, eyes open but unfocused.

Lucky for Ian his heart and body were smarter than his poor, useless mind and he very deliberately walked forward, closing the door behind him. Then he continued and without a word sat down on the firm mattress, and pushed himself backwards until he sat mimicking Mickey's position, at his side.

They didn't speak, but Ian's shoulder pressed against Mickey's upper arm. Ian's chin rested on his own knees. There were no sounds except for the near imperceptible sounds of four lungs breathing, and two hearts beating.

Ian leaned a little more solidly into Mickey and, though it was impossible to tell, he thought he felt Mickey return some of the pressure.

Neither boy moved until the sun began to slip through the curtains, burning away the dark, and the way of it was perfectly clear.

_ I'm not going anywhere. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Open Bond?

Ian was lucky to get a summer job volunteering at the Student Urgent Care on Malcolm X’s campus. It wasn’t much, just cleaning floors, sterilizing exam tables and rooms and such, but his family seemed to understand when he explained that he couldn’t come home for more than a few days at a time for the rest of the summer. Plus Caleb and Kash wanted to have practices at least weekly so the team didn’t get out of shape, so he really couldn’t go home. It had nothing to do with the panther Changeling who was nearly constantly in his presence.

After that horrible, frantic night, Ian had been worried that things would be irreparably changed between them. He was afraid Mickey would avoid him, or lash out like before, but not much had shifted at all. 

Well that wasn’t exactly true. At first there was a clear rise in awareness. Both students had their own lives, their own interests, and once they would have kept them for the most part to themselves, the pieces of their lives strung together side by side, Ian’s football, Mickey’s guitar and music, Ian’s friends, Mickey’s small crimes, Ian’s work, and Mickey’s fixation on criminals, and in between was their friendship. However, it was as if the liminal spaces in between had bled out and then snapped back, throwing the neatly organized spheres of their lives into a jumbled mess where everything overlapped.

Mickey would follow Ian to football, reading, sleeping, or studying. Ian went to Mickey’s room with his summer homework and Mickey played the electric guitar, notably softer if Ian was studying. Despite the fact that it was probably against the rules, many evenings Mickey could be found leaning against an exam room door frame with an ancient file in his hands, firing off facts and ideas as Ian purged the room of viruses and bacteria.

Mickey still didn’t enjoy spending much time with Ian’s friends, but he was getting more tolerant. He didn’t always eat, but he did quite often join Ian in the dining hall, especially if a bribe of coffee was on the table. Where he was once silent and off-putting, he now seemed to listen in on Ian and Joaquin’s various sport related conversations, even commenting at times, especially when it came to tactics. Sometimes when the topic of sports news bored him he would actually discuss sciences with Karen and Chuckie, often without constant scathing deprecation. His politeness didn’t extend to Bonnie or Trevor but their presence no longer ensured his absence from a meal.

On that note, he also began helping Joaquin with some of his Campus Guard work. If you could call overhearing Joaquin discussing vandalism, bullying, and the like with Trevor and Bonnie and then offhandedly telling them who the culprit was while rudely insulting each of their intelligences ‘helping.’ Anyway, the issues got solved.

In the weeks after the slip shift and then Ian’s return, Mickey began to return to himself. The old scars had been irritated but surely they began to close up once more and Ian knew nothing was going to snap and shatter at a moment’s notice anymore. Before Ian realized, they had passed out of the danger zone and in the summer haze where it felt impossibly easy to fight off the storm that had gathered.

It was all of these factors combined that finally led Ian to ask something of Mickey that had never been asked of him before.

They were sitting in the stands of the football field. It was a beautiful day. The sun was high in the sky. There was a group of elementary students playing out on the field between them and the forest, overlooked by a heron shift perched on one of the changing booths.

Ian lay out with a textbook he’d borrowed from Chuckie, and his companion sat on the lowest bench, placing tufts of grass into test tubes filled with what he assumed to be various solutions. He wasn’t exactly sure what this experiment was about. Ian glanced over at him. This was as good a time as any.

“Hey, um, Mickey,” Ian said to get his attention.

“Hmm?” he responded, without looking away from his clippings.

Ian swallowed and wet his lips before continuing.

“So, Joaquin and I have been talking about making a trip out to the Reservoir with Karen and Chuckie sometime this week. Karen said she’d pack a picnic…” Ian trailed off, as Mickey was watching him carefully now. “I was… ah… I was thinking maybe you could join us.”

Mickey said nothing for a moment, then: “You’ll all be travelling in shifted form,” he said, which wasn’t quite a question, as that was the usual method for trips out like this.

While Mickey had indeed grown much more tolerant of Ian’s friends he still had yet to join them in the forest. Ian marked his page and closed the book.

“Ah, yeah... that’s the plan,” Ian said.

“Fuck no,” Mickey said simply and went back to his experment.

Ian sighed heavily.

He made the choice to not give up so easily this time, though, and despite Mickey’s initial flat out refusal, with time, reasoning and a fair bit of persistence, the young Changeling finally agreed. Ian’s ears had suffered when Mickey brought out his guitar that evening but overall he thought it went rather well. In the end Mickey claimed he needed water samples from the lake anyway. Something about drowing someone faster in still lake water than in the ocean….

. . .

True to his grudging word, Mickey could be found trailing after Ian and his friends a few days later. The group bee-lined towards the changing booths.

The school had a good supply of specialised gear that could be loaned out when older Changelings wanted them for expeditions off campus. Having large enough shift forms to carry weight, Ian and Joaquin volunteered to carry the food and a change of clothes for each for them so they could change back at the lake.

Joaquin and Ian shifted and then Karen and Caleb slipped the specially made harness-packs over their bodies. Both Changelings’ tails were wagging lightly in anticipation, especially Joaquin whose big ears were perked up and tail slapped against the ground.

Ian was immediately aware the moment that Mickey shifted, the familiar presence of his mind brushing against Ian’s. He swore he felt a flicker of anxiety but he knew better than to comment. While the knowledge of Mickey’s shift form had spread throughout many social circles at the Institute, Mickey had a knack for avoiding people in the forest that was unparalleled, probably because he had years of practice in the area. Ian knew he was worried about his scars, but their friends were good people. He knew they were intrigued though. Honestly, he didn’t blame them. If anyone understood the mystery of Mickey Milkovich it was Ian.

“Oh!” Karen gasped as she stood, looking towards the booths.

Ian looked over his furry shoulder to see Mickey sauntering towards them. He looked cool and collected but the words in his head and the lash of his tail told Ian a slightly different story.

< **Ian, they’re all looking at me. Make them stop it.** >

Ian couldn’t help the wheezy bark that was his giggle in this form.

< **Oh, you’re fine. They’re just curious and interested. Like I was about your human form.** >

This seemed to sufficiently distract him for a moment and his focus latched onto Ian.

< **What? You were?** Interest?>

Ian’s ears flicked in amusement… and something more.

<’ **Course I was. You were being all pretty and mysterious and stuff.** >

Ian felt the flush of egotistical pleasure and couldn’t help but take the opportunity to tease the panther.

< **That was before I knew how much of an asshole you actually are,** > he added, with mock disappointment.

He fought back another laugh as the arrogant Changeling’s tail lashed in offence and he felt the flash of irritation before Mickey was able to formulate a response. Mickey was about to say something when he noticed Joaquin was staring curiously at the scarring on Mickey’s pelt. Karen and Chuckie were both following his gaze, but looked away in an effort not to be rude. Mickey hissed softly through his teeth and when he sat, he positioned himself so that his scars were blocked from view by Ian’s body.

While Chuckie and Karen changed, Ian and Mickey chatted about lake water and at first Ian felt bad about not being able to include Joaquin in the conversation but then he realized Joaquin was used to the quiet, as none of their shift speaking abilities were extensive enough for a normal conversation. Joaquin did, however, glance over at them a number of times when they would respond physically to something the other said, a turn of the head, a flick of the ears.

Ian was glad when Karen hopped out of her booth, soft brown cottontail shift visible against the dark grass. Chuckie wasn’t far behind, masked raccoon looking eager.

<Wet. Situated.  **Ready?** Anticipation.>

There was a chorus of positive responses and the shepherd turned and led them into the forest.

. . .

The trip to the lake took the better part of the morning and the sun was just reaching its highest point in the sky as they approached. Ian and Joaquin smelled it before they saw it and their exclamations of excitement spread through the group, quickly turning the last leg of their journey into a race to the water’s edge. All it took was a moment of eye contact between Ian and Joaquin and they were off, leaving their friends to try to sprint after them.

< **Ian!? Why’re we fucking running??** >

Ian’s tongue lolled out of his muzzle and he just barked back at Mickey.

< **Because it’s a race, Mickey!** >

< **Why the fuck for??** >

Ian could only bark once more, this time in laughter. By this point, and honestly since the beginning, it was truly just a race between the athletic and competitive Ian and Joaquin. Karen and Chuckie had long since trailed behind and even if Mickey had not been too confused to compete; his form was made for stealth, not sustained speed.

< **Because it’s fun, Mickey!** >

Slightly distracted by Mickey, Ian had slipped back a few yards behind Joaquin. That wouldn’t do.

Then an urge took him, and Ian threw his furry head back and howled with euphoria. It was enough to get Joaquin’s attention and allow Ian to catch up. He copied and howled as well, albeit slightly less impressively.

The water was close now and Ian and Joaquin quickly bent their heads to pull the quick release that allowed them to take the packs off in shifted form. There was an awkward tumble of limbs and straps and then they were free of them, sprinting again. Dry dirt was thrown up behind their paws and neither canine stopped when they reached the bank. There was one more bound and then Ian felt his muscles coil tight and then snap back, launching him high into the air. Ian felt a flash of alarm that was not his own just before he plunged into the cold water. Bubbles erupted around him and he heard the muted concussion as Joaquin hit the water a second after him. Ian didn’t move for a moment, letting himself be suspended in the lake. The air that was trapped in his thick pelt escaped in the form of tiny bubbles floating towards the sky.

< **Gallagher?** >

Mickey actually sounded worried and that made Ian want to smile. Reanimated, Ian bobbed to the surface. Joaquin’s head and water logged ears were already moving towards land. Ian saw Mickey on the bank and began to swim toward the water’s edge. Chuckie and Karen were emerging from the trees.

< **What? No cooling bath for you? Black fur like that, you must be sweltering,** > Ian commented.

Mickey’s muzzle wrinkled and his ears swivelled back in disapproval.

< **Yeah, no thanks.** >

When Ian climbed back onto dry land, sopping wet, he got an idea and though he tried to clamp down on the thought before it got free it seemed he was unsuccessful as Mickey’s eyes widened.

< **No!** > he complained but it was far too late.

Ian shook his body, hard, spraying water everywhere, and all over Mickey, who snarled and recoiled. Ian looked pleased with himself as he used his back foot to knock the water out of his ears. Mickey just stared at him murderously for a moment before going to drag one of the packs behind a tree.

They all took turns changing, putting on their clothes, and once they were done they gathered on the bluff to eat their lunches. They all wore shorts and tee shirts, as they didn’t take up much room in the bag, and Ian had seen what Mickey packed but it still was a bit of a surprise to see him in  [ cut off sweats and black hoodie ](https://i.redd.it/mem2thw4dks51.jpg) . This far north it very rarely became so hot that Mickey couldn’t get away with jeans or his regular tee shirts, cut to the shoulder during the summer. In the simple attire he wore now, he looked at least three years younger and far more vulnerable—less prickly. It wasn’t a bad look for him at all. No, not bad at all. If they had been alone Ian would have teased but decided to spare his friend.

But then he wished he had, if only to stop the next topic from arising.

“So,” Joaquin said around a mouthful of sandwich, “Those are some pretty intense scars, Mickey. Did you get into a big fight?”

Karen looked a little mortified but Chuckie couldn’t help but look highly interested. Ian was balking and Mickey had frozen. Damnit, Joaquin! He had to cover for Mickey. Ian forced himself to swallow, though his throat felt dry as a desert.

“Sort of, right, Mick?” Ian said, and Mickey was looking at him like he had two heads. “Ran into a rogue Wanderer when you just were a kid going into the forest, yeah? So I guess it wasn’t much of a fight.”

Mickey’s  [ eyes were wide ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/882db6deb2c98aadc4c26ce74928fcde/7d9aa38e89576b13-4b/s400x600/fd4c383d2db12519a3e7908c29d2288273fe82ad.gifv) , maybe caught in the true past, and with all his might Ian tried to convey the idea—I’m helping you lie! Figure it out! Finally the so-called-delinquent got it.

“Oh, yeah,” Mickey said, glancing down at his sandwich. “I was in the forest near our place with my sister and we encountered a Wanderer—lion shift. There was some bullshit and I ended up with this.”

He indicated the general area of the scar that was hidden beneath his clothing and Ian was shocked with how good his performance was for starting off so lost. He’d seen Mickey act before and knew he was good. Unfortunately Ian swore he could feel the flickering of pain, and hated it—hated that it wasn’t the truth. He was glad his friends weren’t looking at him as he slowly counted backwards from ten, convincing himself that it was absolutely illogical and irrational to hunt down and kill Terry Milkovich. He would admit he’d had  [ dreams  ](https://ve.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_q4djzfxck21v6ylbv.mp4) about it.

“Wow… that sounds terrifying,” Karen said softly.

“Seriously, man,” Joaquin added and Chuckie nodded in agreement with them. Mickey shrugged and focused an unusual amount on his sandwich, but it was something only Ian would notice.

When the knot in his chest released he wasn’t sure if it was just his relief or both his and Mickey’s he was feeling.

After lunch Mickey collected samples from various parts of the lake and Ian and his friends talked and laughed by the bank. Ian even drew Karen into a splash fight, and he was glad to see her relax a little, as shy as she was.

On the way back, Ian and Mickey chatted as they usually did, today’s topic being the murder of an elderly woman. By most people’s standards it wasn’t a particularly pleasant topic but Ian and Mickey didn’t really fit most standards anyway. Joaquin was in front once more and Ian and Mickey walked abreast, Karen and Chuckie behind them. This time it was Karen he was receiving the strange looks from whenever he would turn his head to respond to something Mickey said. It was beginning to concern him.

It wasn’t until they were walking across campus, fully clothed and fully human that Ian found out why she’d been showing so much interest. They were all tired from the active day so it was relatively quiet in the dusky air.

“Uhmm…” Karen began. “It might be a strange question but on the way back it seemed like you two were talking… I mean were you… talking?”

Then she [ laughed, blushed ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3f6521e67e1dc7be5e4cce758892c750/tumblr_p6vt0ecF9M1vif34po1_400.gifv) and looked directly at Ian, as she often did when something she said came out precisely as she intended it to.

“Oh, ah, yeah. Sorry,” Ian apologized, thinking he’d been ruder than he intended.

“I knew it!” Joaquin said.

“Yeah, thought there was something I was missing,” Chuckie agreed, nodding.

Ian looked between his friends.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“It’s just odd because you’re new and none of our abilities really allow for more than simple messages… but it just seemed like you two were actually… conversing,” Joaquin explained, and then looked a little excited. “How much can you talk to each other?”

Ian glanced up at Mickey for support but he seemed to be absorbed in checking over his lake water.

“Oh, um, it’s not really any different from now, if that’s what you mean. I mean we just had a knack for it, right, Mickey?” Ian called him in.

At least that’s the impression Mickey had given him. I mean, Mickey would have said if there was something particularly strange about it, but then Ian remembered even Mickey’s shock when they first met. Also, who was he kidding? Mickey wouldn’t say a damned thing.  _ Jesus _ , Ian thought.

Mickey still didn’t look up from the water, but made a noise of agreement.

Joaquin was smiling and Karen and Chuckie both looked shocked. All of their reactions, especially Mickey’s, were making Ian uncomfortable.

“Oh, god! That explains a lot!” Joaquin said, looking gleeful.

“What!?” Ian said, absolutely lost for the first time in a good while.

“It’s just... you never mentioned you had an open bond,” Karen said. “Though, well, I guess it makes a lot of sense… Surprised you figured it out and all, Jouqun, being a comp sci major.”

[ Joaquin looked both pleased and abashed. “Don’t even own a computer, dog. ](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/MistyDefiantAfghanhound.webp) ”

Karen trailed off, looking from Ian to Mickey and back. There was that phrase again-  _ Open Bond _ ! So it wasn’t just something Mandy said. Ian was about to ask for an explanation when Mickey made a distressed noise and Ian immediately turned to see what caused it. The brilliant Changeling, however, was already moving at double speed towards the dorm.

Ian rolled his eyes, knowing such a move could only mean he was expected to follow. His body was moving even before his mind could process why or how, leaving his friends with odd expressions on their faces ranging from surprise to victorious amusement.

. . .

Mickey’s Reservoir experiment was about the residue left by the organisms within it on various surfaces—for example, human skin, and how they could impact the speed of drowning. Like asking the question was it easier to drown in clear water or pea soup. This was how Ian found himself with his palm exposed under Mickey’s microscope about twenty minutes after they returned from the Forest. When he’d realized Mickey wanted him to come with him he hadn’t known that i\his own presence could be a manipulating variable. He did, however, tolerate it with a practiced grace.

While one hand was under the microscope the other was propping up his head as he leaned on Mickey’s desk.

“Almost done?” Ian asked, actually the one getting bored this time.

“Stop fuckin squirming,” was Mickey’s only response.

Ian sighed before he remembered the question he’d meant to ask before Mickey had run off.

“Mick, what’s an open bond?” Ian asked, pausing but continuing when Mickey didn’t immediately answer. “Your sister mentioned it but, well, I thought it was just more of her cryptic bullshitat the time.”

That earned Ian a  [ small smirk and a sideways glance from Mickey ](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/OpulentDeliciousFoal.webp) before he went back to studying the tiny traces of lake water and organic life left on Ian’s palm. 

“An open bond,” Mickey began, “From a scientific view point, just describes, basically, like, what we do. Sometimes a pair of Changelings may have an inherent ability to communicate with each other while in shifted form, without any practice, as well as possessing a light empathetic link.”

“Oh,” Ian said. “That’s it? Then why is everyone all out of sorts?”

That didn’t seem like such a big deal at all. Not so different than what most mature Changelings did. Mickey still didn’t look up.

“Because it doesn’t happen very often,” he explained. “And because they’re fuckin’ morons.”

Ian shouldn’t have laughed, but he did.

“That’s not very nice, Mickey,” Ian giggled.

“S’not like they can hear me,” he said dryly. “Stop moving.”

Ian stilled but kept smiling.

“Even you?”

“On occasion,” Mickey said, and he smiled as he stared through the eye pieces of his microscope at the amoebas crawling around on Ian’s hand.

Ian really wanted to wash that now…

On that day, all seemed good. Ian had absolutely no reason to believe Mickey left out any information that Ian may have found invaluable, though, to be fair, at that time, Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich often had very different opinions on what was valuable. Plus, it was difficult to see yourself as in the dark when the sun was shining so brightly and even the air was warm.


End file.
